


A Good Man in Honore

by Librarianmum



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship/Love, Murder Mystery, Trouble In Paradise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 09:42:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 103,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9650114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Librarianmum/pseuds/Librarianmum
Summary: How did Humphrey come to apply for the job in Sainte-Marie? And how did he really feel about investigating Richard's death?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of years ago, I decided to write a story about the utterly adorable Humphrey Goodman. This story was partly how I perceived his background and how he ended up taking over from Richard. When I published it on another site, some reviewers very kindly pointed out one or two mistakes, so I’m taking the opportunity of fixing them while copying this story onto Archive of Our Own! Also, please note that this was written before the events that took place in series 4, so Camille was still very much in Honoré and had no intention to leave.
> 
> I'm just having a bit of fun with the characters, who belong to Robert Thorogood and Red Planet Pictures/Atlantique Production in association with the BBC, and I'm very grateful to them for cheering up my winters with this fun series!

Humphrey Goodman met Sally Smedley on a wet Thursday afternoon in late November. By accident, of course.

He'd been hurrying down the steps of Bournemouth police station, a newly promoted Detective Inspector with an unaccustomed sense of self-confidence and a consequent spring in his step. It was a feeling that would inevitably drift away fairly shortly – as soon as the next time he made an utter fool of himself. However, even _he_ thought his newfound sense of optimism – of having finally done something _right_ in his life– would last longer than roughly seven minutes.

That was how long it took for him to leave the Chief Superintendent's office and hurry down the stairs, already searching his jacket pockets for his mobile as he went. It was a foul day – cold and dreary, with a persistent clammy drizzle, but it was still better to go outside. He wanted to tell his father the good news and, unsure of the old man's reaction, dreaded doing so in front of his colleagues. They would, no doubt, snigger and roll their eyes in the mistaken assumption that 'old Humph' wouldn't notice.

He knew that none of them would understand how he could have made DI. He'd moved here from Oxfordshire Constabulary where, among the dreaming spires of the University town, his little eccentricities had been rather better tolerated. The Chief Superintendent had seen something in the large, clumsy young Constable that had prompted him to push the lad towards a transfer into CID.

Once qualified, DC Goodman had a strange obsession with the minutiae of cases; he was the one who would ask the seemingly unimportant questions. More than a few of his superiors were initially impatient with his eccentric approach, until it became obvious that it – somehow – _worked_. By such means, Humphrey progressed to DS, then took his DI OSPRE exams, which he passed with flying colours… and then got stuck.

Seeing no chance of promotion at his current force and feeling that he needed to improve his parents' views on his career _somehow_ , he'd tried a sideways move to Dorset Constabulary, where he'd been lucky enough to come under the mentorship of DI Fred Savage, a grizzled old refugee from the London Met who had come to the south coast looking for a calmer life a couple of years before he was due to hand in his badge. At his retirement, much to everyone's surprise and indeed Humphrey himself, Savage had recommended "the big lad" for the job.

The Chief Super had accepted his application with a certain degree of reserve – in truth, she could hardly refuse him. Humphrey had already passed his OSPRE with the highest marks that year; easily above those of the other, rather lacklustre, candidates. Dorset didn't tend to attract the most dynamic or ambitious of officers. She'd called him in on this unpromising November day to give him the good news.

And then, of course, he just _had to_ skid on the bottom step outside the police station, lurch forward in an attempt to save himself, nearly knock over a young woman (who dodged him with surprising grace), and end up smacking his face against a soggy, dirty lamp post.

The woman – Sally - was gracious enough to pretend that the near collision was her fault, although they both knew that wasn't the case. She produced a tissue for Humphrey to wipe the mud of his cheek and laughingly helped him make light of the accident. She told him that she'd come to the station to present her full driving licence, having just received a 3-point speeding fine. It was the newly qualified teacher's first speeding fine and she was understandably jittery.

This was, of course, where Humphrey was at his best – his shambolic, self-deprecating charm able to disarm the tensest of witnesses and victims. He led Sally into the reception and took her through the process smoothly, chattering away all the time ("Yes, I agree that the hidden camera just before Ringwood is _very_ mean"). He somehow managed to make Sally feel better about that fact that her pristine driving licence was about to be marked with the speeding offence. Her open and obvious gratitude led him, to his surprise, asking her rather diffidently if she'd like to get a coffee sometime. Perhaps to his even greater surprise, she accepted.

That was probably the last initiative Humphrey ever took when it came to their romance. Sally, very wisely realising that nothing further would happen unless she pushed, more-or-less took over the organisation of dates, the process of moving in together and, eventually their marriage. Looking back, Humphrey couldn't actually recall which of them had proposed, or even if an actual proposal had taken place. All he knew was that, one day, they were standing outside a jewellers in Salisbury, looking at engagement rings. It just seemed to be the next natural step.

And it was _fun_. In fact, for a couple of years, it was _brilliant_. _Fantastic_. Up to now, Humphrey had hardly been successful in his love life. He'd drifted through secondary school, university and a brief flit with the civil service prior to joining the Force, vaguely aware that, all around him, romance was occurring – flirtations led to relationships, fights led to separations. Somehow, however, he felt removed from the natural equation. He had had plenty of platonic friends over the years – fellow oddballs who appreciated his gentle nature, wacky humour and sense of fun. And many of those friends had been women, and he'd liked and respected them a great deal. It would be wrong to suggest that Humphrey treated them quite in the same way as he did his male friends. His father had been something of a male chauvinist about women, and Humphrey probably tried to compensate by being overly supportive of female equality…nevertheless, there was still something old-fashioned about his gently respectful manner towards them.

Humphrey might have been rather surprised had he known that more than one of his female friends had sighed wistfully over those warm blue eyes and that kind, gentlemanly manner…but, eagle-eyed in all other aspects of life, Humphrey was myopic when it came to matters of the heart.

He _had_ been on dates before Sally, but they usually ended with him knocking something over the woman, quite probably his drink, and stammering embarrassed apologies. Eventually, the stress became too much. After one too many nights cut short by his inability to behave like a normal person, he'd given up on the romance and stuck to friendship instead. It was safer that way.

What made Sally different was that she didn't seem to care about the clumsiness. This, in itself, was refreshing. Humphrey had grown up with the understanding that he'd inherited some freak familial characteristic that had cursed him with gangly long limbs, large feet and hands and a complete inability to control them for any length of time.

His father had described him as "that great big lump"; even Mum had said, only half-jokingly, that she feared for her safety when he was around. By the age of 13, he was already half a head taller than his older brothers. Clothes never fitted him right; she struggled to find school shoes in his size. By the time he stopped growing at 18, he had a good sense of how much of a nuisance his adolescence had been to his mother. If he ever needed a reminder, he only had to visit at Christmas or Mothering Sunday or some other holiday to hear the gentle sigh in her voice and the air of mild reproach in her posture.

He'd been mildly bullied for his height in the school playground, but it hadn't lasted too long, as he'd learnt early that a self-effacing smile and a good sense of humour could diffuse any conflict. And Humphrey never lacked for supporters. People _liked_ him. At most stages of his life, he was just "good old Humph".

Even as an adult, he didn't feel quite at ease in his own body. He could now find clothes that fitted him, but the suits he wore to work were too restrictive, while his baggy casual separates made him look untidy. His floppy hair would never lie straight, however hard he tried, and shorter hairstyles looked ridiculous.

And here, suddenly, was someone who couldn't care less about any of it. In a physical sense, Sally reminded him slightly of his mother – slim and fragile-looking, which worried him at first. But, unlike his mother, she was robust and sporty, with a natural enjoyment of the outside life. He didn't fear hurting her with an awkwardly placed elbow or an unanticipated stumble. Around Sally, for once in his life, he didn't feel too big, or too exuberant…or too _anything_.

Sally used to tell her friends that the day she'd met him had been the one bright spark in an otherwise horrible day. She'd often gloss over the actual circumstances of their meeting, but would portray Humphrey as something of a hero in the way he'd helped her. Humphrey was both embarrassed and elated by this. He couldn't always tell whether the glow in her eyes was genuine admiration or just a kind attempt to bolster his self-confidence…but either way, he appreciated it. She even got on well with his parents, charming them over dinner with lightly amusing anecdotes. Their perception was that Humphrey could hardly have done better – his mother even seemed a little bemused that her awkward youngest son could have convinced such a lovely young woman to have him. His father's only response had been to clap Humphrey on the shoulder and tell him "don't do anything to bugger it up, son, 'cos you won't get any second chances with a girl like that one".

So they settled into a modern two-bedroomed flat in Southbourne, with a slightly obstructed view of the sea though the bathroom window, only a short walk from the secondary school where Sally taught biology and just a ten minute drive from Humphrey's station in the centre of town.

Part of the attraction of Bournemouth was its proximity to beaches and countryside…but especially the beach. Humphrey had grown up an Oxfordshire village and had encountered the coast only occasionally as a child, but he had always remembered the sense of freedom he felt walking on a beach, gazing out to sea. The openness appealed to him; he'd always felt 'closed in' among the streets of his home village – over-large for the space allocated to him. How much this was the result of a rather formal restrictive childhood, he couldn't say.

Here, on the coast, he had the freedom he craved. Sally had moved to Bournemouth for much the same reason. Her priorities were slightly different – surfing, yachting, pony hacking – basically anything outdoorsy. The first and only time Humphrey had been on a horse, he'd promptly fallen off and broken his wrist, and it was widely agreed among her yachting friends that he was a liability on a boat. He actually quite enjoyed surfing and he liked the laid-back lifestyle and the company of his fellow surfers, but was no good at it. The third time he'd received a stern ticking off from the lifeguard who had had to come to his rescue, he gave it up as a bad job.

But that was OK. He enjoyed beachcombing at Mudeford Sandbanks while she sailed in Christchurch Harbour, and strolling the gravelled paths of the New Forest while she rode…and even just sitting at the Beach Café in Southbourne, watching her slim, muscular form as she surfed the waves expertly. It was all fine. Better than fine.

He was also beginning to settle down and find his niche among his colleagues at Dorset CID, helped by the fact that, by looking through the cold cases and asking some apparently trivial but crucially important questions, he finally solved the bizarre murder of a young mother that had dogged the local DIs for three years. He'd built up a small band of friends with whom he could drink the occasional pint. He and Sally were a carefree young professional couple with no particular responsibilities, no mortgage to pay (as yet), and no children to support.

But then Sally started to grow restless…

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sally had a number of logical reasons for wanting to sell up and leave Bournemouth after just over three years in the town. Humphrey found it difficult to argue with any of them.

First of all, her job was not at all as she'd expected. Her degree was in botany, and she had gone into teaching ostensibly to 'give something back', but in reality as a way of escaping the confines of the city. She enjoyed her more outside lifestyle, but she didn't enjoy the lower salary or the stresses of teaching. She felt that it would be far better to pursue her original career choice, and it would be far easier to do that in London, where there were a number of universities and private companies seeking good researchers for the field.

More to the point, she'd grown up in north London and was beginning to miss the bright lights of the big city life – visiting friends in bars after work, going to concerts and plays, walking on Hampstead Heath on sunny Sunday afternoons. Possibly, it had something to do with having just entered her thirties – perhaps she was just feeling old and was craving an earlier lifestyle, but there it was.

And, besides, her family lived in London. Unlike Humphrey's, her parents were a generous, fun-loving couple with a bewildering number of children and grandchildren constantly coming and going at their large Victorian detached house in Tufnell Park. Humphrey had always felt more at ease there than with his own family. Sally had two brothers and a sister, all married with kids, and all in the London suburbs. It was perhaps inevitable that she would feel drawn back eventually. He wondered a little whether, in her own mind, she saw it as a prelude to starting their own family – and also wondered why the prospect didn't thrill him. Anyway, the topic was never raised.

And finally, as she pointed out, Humphrey's job was hardly exciting. The odd murder apart, he spent most of his time investigating drug transactions in the deprived area of Boscombe, interspersed with the theft of luxury goods from the far richer populations of Branksome and Sandbanks. She pressed her point: his abilities were wasted at such a small Constabulary. Surely there'd be an opening at the Met? She had every confidence that he would be able to adjust to a big city mentality and that he'd enjoy the challenge. If he could make DI there, his salary would be much higher too.

Humphrey was not so certain. It would mean starting again, getting a new group of colleagues used to his odd but effective methods, and he was tired of being laughed at behind his back by people who assumed he was far stupider than he was. He probably could make it work, but he'd miss the coastline and the sense of peace it gave him at the end of a frustrating day. It would mean leaving another set of friends behind too.

Nevertheless, Sally prevailed, a transfer to the Met was sought and granted, and they moved into the ground floor of a semi-detached house in Enfield. Sally celebrated by getting tickets for Centre Court at Wimbledon. She lost no time in securing a well-paid job for an international pharmaceutical research company.

* * *

 

Humphrey was initially nervous of the hard-edged CID officers at the Met – they had a reputation for being dismissive of county-trained detective inspectors – but he found that he fitted in surprisingly well. They were more tolerant of less conventional methods; if an officer got the job done and was loyal to his comrades, then that was all they cared about. Most of them were single or else childless, like himself, and were consequently more sociable at the end of a tough week. He learnt fairly early on that it was considered good form for a new DI to turn up at their 'local' on a Friday night and be prepared to stand his round. Once more, he became "good old Humph", but there was less sniggering and more camaraderie here in London then there had been in Bournemouth. With his longer working hours and his drinking sessions with colleagues, he found that he was spending far less time with his wife, but she didn't seem to mind, being busy enough with her own friends at work.

He'd learnt about the importance of the Friday night drink from a colleague who had been referring to a fellow officer who went by the name of Richard Poole. This man had, it transpired, been something of a hermit. "You'd have understood him, Humph," the officer explained, "but you wouldn't have liked him. Right miserable bastard, he was. We had a party when he left – by which I mean _after_ he left."

Poole had apparently been isolated – or had isolated himself perhaps - in a depressingly dark corner of the communal office. Since his departure some six months before Humphrey arrived, it had lain empty. Humphrey had been a little confused by that, having assumed that he'd been brought into to replace Poole, but it turned out that the DI was merely on an extended placement and his job was being kept open for him. His colleagues had shown their feelings about that by covering the temporarily empty desk with dusty piles of unwanted stationery.

For some reason, even as he settled into his new role and grew used to the faster pace of city policing, Humphrey found himself drawn to that dusty corner. Initially, his kind nature rebelled at the idea of a fellow officer being treated so shabbily by his colleagues, however socially inept he might be. But more than that, he felt a strange sense of fellow-feeling with the mysterious Poole.

Later on, he grew obsessed with the spectre of this unknown quantity. Poole's name had been mentioned more than once in discussions about previous cases – usually a reluctant nod to an unusual but effective method that had led to a crime being solved. The irony was that Poole's methods were not dissimilar to Humphrey's own, with their focus on 'the means, the method and the opportunity'. His colleagues might have disliked Poole, but they had to acknowledge the value of the man's obvious brilliance and dogged determination. Comments such as: "Remember when Poole solved that case by sorting that bag of marbles by size? That was _really_ weird" only served to whet Humphrey's curiosity further.

Humphrey often (but privately) felt that Richard Poole's methods were not all _that_ odd. After all, they _worked_. He personally couldn't work out what was wrong with an old-fashioned board and a bunch of photographs; far better than a sophisticated computer programme that would go wrong as soon as he looked at it. Occasionally, when he was stuck with an investigation, he'd find his eyes going to that deserted corner and would wonder what Poole's insight would be.

He felt he could instinctively understand this prickly but intelligent stranger. If he knew Sally was going out for dinner with friends, he would occasionally stay late and look through old files of Poole's cases, admiring his reasoning and methodology. In the spiky, rather jerky writing he found in the files, he felt he could hear the man's voice. DI Richard Poole would, of course, be fluent, concise and brilliantly confident in his delivery. He wouldn't stutter or go off at a tangent, like Humphrey. People would listen to him with respect. A man like Richard Poole wouldn't have to put up with poorly disguised eye-rolling and patronising smiles. _Poole_ wouldn't have to plaster a grin on his face every time someone slapped him on the back and called him "good old Humph".

He regretted the fact that he hadn't worked alongside the man. All he knew was that he'd been temporarily transferred to "some God-awful little mosquito-infested backwater of an island somewhere in the Caribbean". Somehow, even that unattractive description sounded impossibly alluring.

Humphrey envied him. He had visions of Richard lying in a hammock in Hawaiian shorts, looking out over a peaceful tropical bay, beer in hand. It sounded wonderful – after his years of self-imposed isolation at the Met, Poole must really love his exile to paradise. The image appealed to his sense of justice; it was surely right that an intelligent but misunderstood detective was now enjoying a more relaxed lifestyle.

The fact that he _was_ enjoying it was confirmed by the fact that Poole didn't apply to return to his old job after a year, even though he'd apparently been informed that it was still open. Instead, it was announced that Poole had become Chief Inspector on the island of Saint-Marie. The reaction of Humphrey's fellow officers was something along the lines of 'good riddance to bad rubbish'. Humphrey's own reaction was disappointment that it was unlikely he'd ever get a chance to work with Richard Poole.

Life went on and another year passed, during which Humphrey became involved in a long and complicated case involving a large people-trafficking ring that took up the majority of his time. The case involved extensive travel in the Far East and North Africa, and he put in some good investigative work that led to the ring being broken up and its chief members being arrested and charged. His satisfaction with this result and the impact on his reputation at work kept him happy. His obsession with Richard Poole lessened, although he occasionally used some of the DI's methods in his own investigations. Occasionally, he wondered whether he ought to contact the man – acknowledge Poole's contributions to his cases…but that seemed like excessive, 'stalkerish' behaviour, and he doubted that Poole would appreciate it.

He found himself dreaming of tropical islands with white sand beaches and dazzlingly blue seas increasingly often. It took him longer than it should have done to work out the reason why.

* * *

 

The opportunity came out of the blue, via a rumour that Poole had finally got fed up with his exotic posting and would be coming back. As the rest of the team bemoaned the news, Humphrey found his mind turning to the job itself. If Poole was vacating the post, did that mean the job would be available?

He did a little digging. Saint-Marie was a fairly compact island. Its police force had responsibility for a number of smaller outlying islands, but appeared surprisingly under-resourced for its geographic coverage; he assumed this meant it was a relatively crime-free area. Perhaps that was why Poole was returning – no longer a big enough challenge? There was only one DI position at the small police station in Honoré, supported by a sergeant and a couple of junior officers. As far as he knew, that post would be vacant once Poole returned. A return to small-town policing might suit Humphrey, and the exotic location would be fun – a kind of adventure. Humphrey had enjoyed his travels during the past year, even though they had revolved around investigations, and he'd developed a taste for tropical locations.

It did make a fair amount of sense. If he applied, perhaps Sally could get a transfer? Her company had substantial links with the Caribbean. Or perhaps, she could find something local to do – even set up her own business?  Someone as bright and as ambitious as Sally could always turn an opportunity to her advantage, and she had an adventurous streak too.

He tentatively mooted the idea with his Chief Superintendent. The man was sympathetic but couldn't confirm that Poole was even leaving the post. It turned out that he was coming to the UK briefly as part of an investigation, but the Chief Super hadn't heard that Poole intended to stay. Nevertheless, if Humphrey felt he could offer something, then while he would be sorry to lose such a good detective, he'd certainly support his application to the Commissioner, etc., etc…

Next, Humphrey, even more tentatively, raised the opportunity with Sally. He wasn't sure what her reaction would be – in fact, he wasn't sure of much these days. He didn't see an awful lot of her, and when he did, she seemed reasonably happy but a little distant.

They hardly ever did anything together, and their sex life had deteriorated since the move to London, which he assumed to be his fault. It was just that the job was _so_ time-consuming, and he'd had to put in all that extra time on the trafficking case, and then sometimes, when he got home, he was too knackered to do anything more than make a coffee and sit in front of crappy TV. He could hardly blame her for not being so interested in him these days, could he? Sometimes, he feared that they'd prematurely reached a state of comfortable but essentially boring middle-aged domesticity, albeit one without the usual 2.4 kids.

When he raised the topic of Sainte-Marie, he expected her to explode, to ask him if he was _serious_ , to point out the many reasons why it was such a _bad_ idea. Sally had always been good at making logical decisions, and no doubt she'd find half a dozen immediate and major flaws to his plan. Much to his surprise, however, her reaction was reasonably positive.

"Well, it would be a major change…but I suppose we could make it work."

" _Really_? You mean it?" He was astounded. "You really wouldn't mind leaving London behind for this?" For _me_ …for _us_? was the unspoken subtext to this.

"Well…" She hesitated and bit her lip, uncharacteristically hesitant. "You obviously want to, and…it'll be something different, anyway."

Exalted beyond belief by this unexpected reaction, he went ahead with the preparation of his application for the post of Detective Inspector of Sainte-Marie, to be submitted the moment Poole announced his resignation. In the process of this, he didn't notice that Sally's responses to the topic grew quieter, her enthusiasm more muted. Whenever he asked her, she still seemed firmly in favour of the move, and yet appeared to make no effort to prepare for it. She wouldn't hand in her notice at work ("better to wait and see what turns up when you get confirmation, don't you think?"), or their notice to their landlord ("after all, I wouldn't be able to leave immediately, and I'd need somewhere to stay until we've moved all our things"). It was all perfectly sensible, of course – he'd expect no more of her. After all, Poole hadn't resigned quite yet, and even if he did, Humphrey wasn't assured of the post.

Much later, he would be able to acknowledge that he _had_ always known she was unhappy about the move. Subconsciously, Humphrey had realised that their relationship had grown stale. It was possible that this desire for the Sainte-Marie post was at least partially borne out by a perceived need to galvanise his relationship. In a fresh location, learning a new culture and adjusting to the climate and way of life would be a challenge that could push them together again. Their London lifestyle was choking the life out of their marriage. _He_ knew it, and _she_ knew it…  But, the big question was, would she show that she still believed in _them_ by coming with him?

* * *

 

In the event, Humphrey was unable to submit his application, for the simple reason that Richard Poole was not, after all, resigning. It really _was_ just a flying visit to London, and Humphrey didn't even set eyes on the man, as he was called away to the scene of a particularly gristly murder on the same day.

The disappointment lay heavy in his gut. He saw his life continuing as a neat sequence of work, pub, bed, and work again, day in, day out, with an occasional polite exchange of words with his wife – he could hardly even term them _conversations_ these days. Sally was as nice as ever, commiserating with him on the post and being kind enough not to point out that it had been silly of him to get so excited in the first place.

He felt deeply tired – _exhausted_. Not physically, although the hours he worked were tough enough, but mentally. It was a struggle to force himself out of bed in the mornings, sometimes even to put one foot in front of the other. In Bournemouth, he had always been able to counter mental fatigue with a peaceful, refreshing, early morning walk on the deserted beach; here, even if he had the time, there was nowhere to go.

One Monday morning, nearly three months after his application was abandoned, as he walked into New Scotland Yard, he was aware of a certain degree of excited whispering among a group of uniformed officers hanging around the reception area. He frowned, his tired senses immediately sharpening. It was clear that something fairly major was going on. No one looked at him, and it wasn't in his nature to gate-crash a private conversation, so he continued on his way to his office, wondering when he would find out.

As it turned out, he didn't have long to wait. The atmosphere in the large, open-plan CID office was strangely subdued, even for a Monday morning. One of the other DIs spun around on his office chair as Humphrey passed his desk.

"You heard the news? About Poole?"

"No – what?"

The DI grimaced, looking a little discomforted as he spun back. "Only gone and got himself bloody killed. Or suicide. They're not sure which."

Humphrey froze. He found his eyes turning again, automatically, to that dark corner desk, covered with dusty old stacks of paper as usual. He'd occasionally imagined what Poole's response would have been if he'd returned to his job – he imagined the man muttering in annoyance as he cleared his desk. For some reason, he hadn't thought about whether Richard had come back to his old office when he'd come over for his short visit – no one had mentioned it and he hadn't thought to ask. If he _had_ come in during that visit, would he have cleared the desk anyway, even if he hadn't planned to stay for long? He was just the type to be fussy enough to do so.

Well, he'd never clear it now.

Humphrey felt a sudden sensation of deep grief, so sharp that it nearly doubled him over. He clutched at his stomach and took a sharp breath, closing his eyes against the pain. Oddly, he had an inappropriate desire to laugh – how utterly _ridiculous_ to mourn someone you had never met! – and then he realised it was just the shock. Ironic that despite years of dealing with nasty deaths and recognising shock in the newly-bereaved, he failed to recognise the same reaction in himself.

"Sir?"

It was his DS, a competent young woman called Barrett, and he had the horrible feeling that she'd been calling his name for a while. He opened his eyes and noticed that one or two of his colleagues were looking at him strangely.

"Are you OK, Sir?"

"Yes," he assured Barrett. "Just thinking of…something. What is it?"

"The Chief wanted to see you as soon as you got in this morning."

As Humphrey hurried towards his boss's office, he had a fair idea of what was going to be asked of him. He wasn't sure precisely how he felt… He'd wanted the job of course, but not like _this_.

He'd have to tread very carefully. He had no real sense of how Poole's colleagues might be feeling – clearly it must have been an awful shock to find themselves investigating his death.

Of course, it wasn't very clear how close they had been to him. If he'd been as unsociable with them as with his London colleagues, they might not have had that great a working relationship with him. Though…if that was the case, surely he wouldn't have stayed on? But then, it sounded as if Richard Poole had been impatient with the niceties of office friendships – it was more than likely he'd just led his team in a formally professional manner and they'd probably respected his abilities even if they didn't care for him personally very much.

His main source of information would probably be that DS of his – what was her name, now? Something French. Camilla? Camille? Anyway, he'd soon find out what she'd thought of her deceased boss.

Of course, his speculations about Richard Poole meant that, when he _did_ finally meet DS Camille Borday, he was entirely unprepared for the look of utter devastation on her face.

 


	3. Chapter 3

From the moment he stepped off the plane, Humphrey loved Sainte-Marie.

He'd discovered an enjoyment of tropical climates during the trafficking investigations in Hong Kong. He'd been conveyed to an air conditioned hotel and then to the local air conditioned police station in an air conditioned car with tinted windows.  His trip could just as easily have ended up like his previous trips to Moscow or Tangiers – so protected and sterile that he might as well have never left Heathrow. If it hadn't been for the fact that he was in those locations to interview local gang members with the help of translators, he might not have remembered where he was.

In Hong Kong, though, he’d managed to give his minders the slip for half a day, during which time he’d wandered around Kowloon getting utterly lost and enchanted by the bustle and confusion. He’d loved being a stranger, intruding into lives that he never knew existed; he’d _loved_ not understanding the language or the culture – indeed, not having the foggiest idea what was going on around him.

Sainte-Marie promised a similar experience. He was looking forward to experiencing life there – new food and drink, local music, the beach life. And he wanted Sally there with him – he _yearned_ to recapture the happiness of their early days. She was an adventurer too, and together they would _learn_ this island and – perhaps – even make it their home too.

Even the heat was welcome. Yes, it adhered his crumpled shirt to his back and his jacket smelt less than fresh, and yes, it did feel like he was walking through a pool of warm water, but in an odd way, it also energised him. He felt as if he was getting in touch with his own body; as if the trickle of sweat was confirmation of his continuing existence.

Or, at least, he _would_ have felt that if he hadn't currently felt as if his head was full of cotton wool and as if he could sleep for a week.

He _knew_ the score. He was out there to solve a murder, and there was no guarantee that the Commissioner would keep him on. He knew the Chief had put in a good word for him, but he also knew that he was expected to hit the ground running. Whatever else he'd been to them, Richard Poole was still one of their own, and they'd want answers. Cops never liked losing a colleague; even at the Met, officers came up to him while he was clearing his desk and wished him luck with "catching the toe rag that got Poole".

So he _should_ have spent the flight alternating between power naps and checking his file of details on Richard's death, so that he arrived as fresh as possible. However, Humphrey found it hard to relax. There'd been something about Sally's behaviour at the airport – something about the way she'd clung to him before he left…

They shouldn't be parted for too long.  She had to serve out her notice at her company and then the flat was being let, so she was putting the rest of their belongings in storage…but, despite all that, she could be joining him in as little as two weeks. The thought elated him and unnerved him, in equal measure. What if she hated Sainte-Marie? What if it was all a colossal mistake and she blamed him for ruining their lives? The 'what-if's' span around his head for most of the flight; he couldn't concentrate on the case, his chair was uncomfortable so he couldn't sleep and then, eventually, he passed out from a combination of stress and sheer exhaustion about two hours before the arrival time. Consequently he had to be woken by a flight attendant on arrival so he could stagger off the plane and into the chaos of customs and immigration.

He arrived at Horore police station severely jet-lagged and sweaty, struggling with his cases, and acutely aware that he was making a very bad first impression – not just on his potential boss but on the small group of officers clustered on the verandah. The looks of bemused contempt on the faces of the two men, he could recognise easily, and his heart sank, even as he plastered a cheerful smile on his face. _Here we go, Humphrey_ …

He knew that he could befriend them, make them understand his methods, just as he'd done with colleagues in the past, but it would be exhausting. And on top of that, he had the spectre of Richard Poole to live up to.

Still - contempt he could overcome. But it was the moment when he saw that look of utter devastation on the face of Camille Bordey that he realised the situation was going to be far more complicated this time.

Somehow, he struggled through the first day, and then the second day, propping his eyes open with coffee when he could grab it. Even Catherine's lethal concoction seemed to help, in an odd way. The case proceeded slowly – which of the old university friends had the motive to kill Richard and why _there_? Which of them had the opportunity during the party?

And – although he had tried to suppress his thoughts from the moment he met her, feeling oddly disloyal to Sally for even thinking them – had Richard _realised_ that his extraordinarily beautiful Detective Sergeant was in love with him?

It became clear that there had never been an acknowledged relationship between Camille and Richard. He suspected that Dwayne, at least, knew how Camille had really felt about her boss – smart man, that Dwayne, he might lack Fidel's attention to detail, but he knew all about human psychology. But had _Richard_ known? And, if he _had_ , Humphrey couldn't help wondering why he'd done nothing about it. Who could resist Camille – had he been a _monk_? Or gay, perhaps? He considered this possibility briefly – had Richard been in a relationship with one of the male suspects? – before dismissing it just as quickly. It was quite clear that neither James Moore nor Roger Sadler were interested in men.

Of course, Poole may have simply not been interested in Camille Bordey. It was more likely, though, that he _had_ been but had chosen not to act on his feelings. She was his junior officer, after all, and there would have been all sorts of complications had he started a relationship with her. The strongest impression Humphrey had had of Richard Poole was that the man was deeply ethical. It was one of the reasons why he'd been so disliked at the Met – according to his colleagues, Poole would have had no hesitation in turning in a fellow officer if he'd uncovered any wrong-doing. With such a high expectation of other officers, Poole mightn't have wanted to fall below his own rigid standards.

It occurred to Humphrey that he really didn't know Richard Poole at all well. The _detective_ he felt he'd already met through his case notes at the Met, but the _man_ was still a stranger.

He'd developed some impressions. Richard was clearly liked, even loved, by his team, but it wasn't so clear to what degree he'd returned that affection. His desk was obsessively neat – and the team's initial reluctance to let Humphrey sit there suggested that they hadn't tidied it for him after his death, so it must have always been like that. Camille's mother's reaction at the bar was odd – why offer Humphrey _tea_? It would have been the last drink Humphrey would have wanted in that heat, but did _Richard_ drink it? Richard's house had been cleared in preparation for Humphrey's arrival, but the lizard was an oddity and didn't really fit with the rest of the picture that Humphrey was building up about the deceased detective. He needed to hear Richard's own voice in order to understand him.

In the end, it was Camille who gave him the clue, while she was reading Richard's diary from his university days – and how could he forget the wistfulness in her eyes when she said that Richard had been in love with Sasha? She commented that it was sad to read a dead person's diary and learn about their dreams, especially when the dreams wouldn't now come true…and Humphrey had had a thought…

* * *

 

Later, when the case was solved and 'Sasha' and James Moore had been detained and charged - and after he had received that answerphone message from Sally that served only to confirm what he'd somehow already known – he turned his mind back to his suspicions. As a way of taking his mind off his own problems, because if he didn't, he'd probably end up drinking too much, he began to search his – no, _Richard's_ – house.

He didn't think it likely that either Fidel or Dwayne would have found it while they packed Richard's possessions – Richard was clearly a secretive man and would have hated to have had his private thoughts revealed and discussed. When he did find the small, red leather book, stashed under a loose floorboard beneath the bed, Humphrey made a silent and heartfelt vow to Richard that the contents would never be shared with anyone else, even Camille.

_Especially_ Camille, if the diary revealed what he feared it might.

He pulled a chair to the open doorway that led out onto the verandah and savoured the fresh, salty sea breeze before opening the diary. The initial pages were innocuous enough. Humphrey was amused to discover that many of his early assumptions had been wrong. Richard hated the heat with a passion. He hated dressing down even more, so was prepared to suffer in his dark suit. He didn't care for the feel of sand between his toes and was nervous of the sea. There _was_ a hammock in the house, but Richard had never made use of it. So Humphrey's visions of an Englishman in shorts with a beer, hanging out on the beach, had been wrong on almost every level. His entries about endless, weary attempts to find a decent cup of tea confirmed another suspicion. Humphrey wondered whether he'd left poor Catherine assuming that all English detective inspectors required tea in order to work efficiently.

As the diary continued, Richard seemed to become more resigned to his exile. There was one entry written in emphatically angry writing, describing the Commissioner in deeply unflattering terms – he didn't specify the man's exact crime, but Humphrey could match the dates to that time when the Met officers had been told that Richard was not reapplying for his job. It looked as if Richard had been 'played' by that wily individual – Humphrey made a mental note to himself to be on his guard with Selwyn Patterson.

Actually, a lot of Richard's diary was like that. He was discreet, not giving details of cases in a way that would allow any individual to be identified and providing very little in the way of personal information about any of his subordinates. He referred to the three of them by their first initials alone. Humphrey appreciated that – clearly, Richard was taking nothing to chance. His heart ached at the realisation that he would almost certainly have liked Richard Poole very much. It was likely that _he_ would not have been quite _Richard's_ cup of tea, so to speak, but he was sure that the two of them would have found plenty of common ground. Just working on a case together would have been fascinating.

It warmed his heart to note that Richard was fond of Fidel and wrote of him in admiring terms. In some ways, Richard saw Fidel as the young man he might have become had he not been so lacking in social confidence. Humphrey could see that Richard envied the younger man's ability to balance a happy family life alongside his fierce commitment to his work. "I truly believe that F will be promoted to DCI one day", wrote Richard, "if he continues along the path he has taken." This was written in relation to Fidel's worries about taking his OSPRE sergeant exams, and Humphrey really hoped that Richard had managed to convey his pride to Fidel himself before his death. He was sure it would have done wonders for the younger man's confidence. He made another mental note to review Fidel's professional development and make sure he had plenty of opportunities to develop in his new role.

Richard's relationship with Dwayne was a little more complex. Humphrey himself rather liked the laid-back constable, but he suspected that Richard might have found his laissez-faire attitude to work rather irritating. He hoped that it had been as obvious to Richard as to himself that Dwayne was a quick-witted officer who _did_ care about upholding justice in his community, and that he simply had his own ways of getting his work done. He felt it probably was – Richard didn't mention Dwayne much, but when he did, the comments were usually positive: "As usual, D used his persuasive charms to get the answer we needed – not sure what we'd have done if he hadn't". Humphrey needed to ensure that he made it clear to Dwayne that his methods were appreciated, just in case Richard hadn't had the opportunity.

And then, there was Camille. Richard was cautious in his mentions of her, almost as if he was trying to deny his own admiration. But…who could possibly _not_ admire her? It wasn't just her looks - in the short time that he'd come to know her, Humphrey had been able to look beyond the obvious beauty to see the person inside. She was deeply intelligent and had a knack for making the right connections within a case. She was also very strong, carefully hiding her grief for Richard behind a stoical expression – just occasionally he saw the terrible sadness and bewilderment in her eyes. She was kind, too – far kinder to _Humphrey_ than he deserved, with his clumsy attempts to say the right thing. It had been kind of her to invite him to join them for drinks, and it had been a struggle to do the right thing and turn the invitation down.

Camille would have loved Richard passionately if he had acknowledged his feelings for her. Humphrey idly wondered about the happiness of such a man, to have the full force of the young French woman's passion and affection focused on him and him alone… He shook his head to dislodge such images – how could he even _think_ such things when Sally had only just left him? – and refocused on the diary.

For it was true that Richard _did_ have feelings for Camille, in a small way, at least. It was there between the lines, mostly. Little snippets, here and there:

"As usual, I could rely on C to come up with the important fact – the one that saved the case."

"C wore red today. It's funny - I don't normally like red that much."

"Hotter than ever today. Why doesn't C ever look too hot? Must ask."

"Nearly lost the suspect but managed to spot him by the moonlight shining on the silver buttons of his jacket. C's hair shines silver in moonlight, like a curtain of stars."

"Night at the bar. As usual C wanted me to dance. Would rather stay seated, got two left feet and anyway, I can watch her better that way."

"Wonder if C would really like Clacton?"

And, finally and most poignantly, on the day of that fatal party:

"Will have to confront H, don't want to, but it's not fair on S's memory. Hate parties, anyway. Wonder if C would come and rescue me if I asked? Would she come anyway – somewhere, anywhere - with me? Maybe I should just ask her. Just a drink or something. Am sick of trying to do the right thing. Maybe I'll ask tomorrow."

Humphrey sighed as he closed the diary. He rubbed his eyes, noting with surprise that it was getting dark outside. He'd been reading for almost two hours. He struggled out of the deck chair

His speculations about Richard's feelings for Camille and discovery of the diary had done much to take his mind off Sally's shock announcement, but he found himself returning to it now.

He leaned in the open doorway, Richard's diary still in his hand, and listened to the message again and again, trying to will it to say something different each time. Maybe there was a follow-up message - maybe she'd changed her mind and had rung back to say she was sorry and that she _would_ be coming after all, _would_ be trying to make a go of it – and maybe in his clumsy way he'd deleted the message without hearing it? Somehow he knew that that wasn't the case. Had she even handed in her notice or put the flat on the rental market, as she'd claimed? He'd been too busy, having been given just 36 hours to get packed and on his way – he'd just assumed that she would organise everything after he'd gone. But now, that prolonged hug at the airport made sense. Sally had _never_ had any intention of joining him – she'd known it back then, and was silently saying goodbye for more than just a few weeks.

He felt a heavy depression coming over him. His marriage had _failed_. Only 36 and he was a _failure_ in this, as in almost anything he had ever tried to achieve. He could just imagine Dad. " _I told you, son, don't bugger this up. You won't get another chance"_. The old man was probably right, too.

He carefully put Richard's diary down on the bed and walked out of his house and onto the sand. The sun had set and the stars were starting to appear; he could hear nothing but the muffled sounds of laughter from the town, just along the coast, interspersed with the gentle lapping of the waves. He sat down near the tide's edge, hugging his knees and resting his chin on them.

She'd said that she didn't love him anymore. How long had that been coming on? Had he not noticed something obvious? Could he have even done anything about it? If he hadn't given in and moved to London, would they still be together? But then, Sally had wanted to move to London – if they hadn't, she might have left him even sooner.

The cold reality was that this had _always_ been on the books. He'd told Camille, only half-jokingly, that Sally had often told him when to shut up – and it _was_ true that she'd frequently found him annoying, particularly when her friends were around. Traits that had seemed amusing and even endearing in a fairly new boyfriend had quickly become a serious irritant once they had got married.

It was the little things – the way he insisted on walking on the outside of a pavement and opening doors offended her feminist sensibilities. She hated the way he rambled on and on (" _I'm trying to_ _think!")_. He tended to hog the middle of the bed, so she was always pushing him away in the summer months (" _God, Humph, do you have to be such a hot lump_?"). He couldn't get her favourite drink quite right (" _OK, I suppose I'll have to sort it out myself, since you can't follow a simple instruction_ "). He couldn't follow recipes to the book, he was always late for dinner dates with friends, he was so often _wrong._ And she'd always smile and be very _nice_ about it, but it was there. The suppressed sigh of irritation, the look of mild disappointment in her eyes. It was his mother all over again… gradually, so gradually that he hadn't even noticed it happening. And she was always _right_ too, that was the thing. He really _was_ stupid about certain things.

His mind turned to Camille. Which was worse, he wondered, to love someone and never have it openly reciprocated, or to have your love returned and then lose it? What was it they said – "it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all"? Something like that. Anyway, the point _was_ , here he was wallowing in self-pity when he should _really_ be thinking of someone else whose loss was far more terrible. At least the woman he loved was still well and still living, even if she was no longer in his life.

Angry with his self-absorption, he got up abruptly and strode back to the house. He hadn't yet unpacked – part of him had been waiting until Sally arrived, since she'd probably have a better idea of where things should go. Well, she wouldn't be coming now, so _he'd_ have to sort it out.

Once he'd unpacked and stowed his cases, he went through the house, picking up bits of rubbish that had been left behind when Fidel and Dwayne had quickly packed up Richard's belongings. He assumed they were no longer needed, scraps of paper, broken pencils, dirty old rags, a single hole-y sock. He gathered all this up into a small pile and took it out onto the beach, a safe distance from the house. Humphrey had been a boy scout and, for all his domestic faults, was more than capable of collecting together some driftwood and creating a campfire.

When the fire was blazing nicely, he went back into the house and eyed the book contemplatively. It seemed _wrong_ to keep the diary. Richard clearly wouldn't have wanted anyone else to read it – not in Sainte-Marie anyway. It would be easy to just toss it on the fire, and nobody but him would be any the wiser. But, on the other hand, did _he_ have the right to burn it? Shouldn't that be the decision of someone who knew and loved him?

"Hello? Are you there, Sir?"

He heard Camille's voice approaching from the verandah. He fumbled to slip the book out of sight under the pillow. As he turned away, his hand caught on something on the bedside table, sending it flying to the ground with a crash.

"Ah, you _are_ here, then." She appeared in the open doorway and leaned against the door frame, raising her eyebrows.

He gave her a guilty look as he retrieved the remains of what looked like a rather hideous ornament, in the shape of a conch shell and covered in glitter. "Er…do you suppose this was of any value?"

She gave it a dismissive look. "I shouldn't think so. It wasn't – it didn't belong to…" She swallowed, looking away for a moment. "I think it preceded him. He probably didn't bother to throw it away."

"Oh, well." He chucked the bits in the bin and dusted his hands off, feeling a little hot and acutely aware of her gaze."

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" She sounded a little tentative.

He waved a hand casually, forcing a smile. "Disturb away. I'm still too jet-lagged to sleep properly. I – um – I'd offer you a drink, but I don't know if I'm organised enough…" He hadn't had time to go shopping, but Fidel had offered to deliver a few basics – milk and so on. He located the fridge and wandered over to it, more in hope than expectation.

"Oh, you don't have to -," she began, as he opened the fridge door and whistled at the row of beer bottles. _Basics indeed_ ….

"Aha! Just what I need." He pulled out a couple of beers, passing one to Camille. "Good work, Fidel."

"I wasn't planning on staying," she murmured, as she opened her bottle. "I just wanted to check that you were alright – that you'd settled in."

"I assumed you'd be making a night of it with the others. Um – Richard, and all that -," he added, awkwardly, as they wandered outside and sat down on the sand near the fire.

Her eyes widened. "We _did_. It's after midnight. After all, tomorrow _is_ a working day – Sir."

"Good point." _Call me Humphrey_ , he wanted to add, but perhaps it was a little too soon for that. "Er…the body – Richard, I mean… what time do they fly him home?"

"Why do you ask?" Was that sharpness in her tone? He didn't know her well enough to be able to interpret.

"Ah, well, I just thought I might send a letter with…him. To his parents. Commiserations, and so on."

"I thought you didn't know him?"

"I didn't. It doesn't matter." He could always get the address later, from Richard's files. Send the diary to his parents. Possibly they would like to read about their son's time on the island – and then they could make the decision about who else should know. It wouldn't be his decision, anyway.

She sighed, staring into the fire. "I still can't quite believe it. You know? Less than a week ago, he was still here."

"It must be very difficult for you – all," he ventured, cautiously.

She shook her head and put the bottle down undrunk. "I don't want this after all. I'm sorry."

"That's quite OK." He scrambled to his feet as she stood up.

She hesitated briefly and glanced towards the verandah. He had the impression that she was looking for someone.  Someone who would never stand there again. She shook her head again and turned towards the road and her car.

"Good night, Sir."

"Yes, of course. See you tomorrow, Camille."

He stood and watched until she drove away. This was going to be a lot more difficult than he had anticipated.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The peace of an early Sunday morning on the remote beach was disturbed only by the gentle waves, the squawking of distant seabirds… and an occasional heartfelt curse.

"Blast! Why won't it just… oh, buggering bollocks!"

Humphrey dropped the poles that just _wouldn't_ fit together the way the drawing suggested they should. Absently, he scratched the sunburn on his bare shoulder as he glared at the innocent sections of the would-be hammock, currently strewn across the white sand.

He was…getting there. That was about all he could say.

Well, it wasn't _quite_ as bad as that. He'd had plenty to do, starting with unpacking the additional luggage that had followed him by two weeks and finding places for everything in his 'shack'. Humphrey was by no means a hoarder, but he _had_ been expecting Sally to join him, so there were a fair number of favourite books, CDs and DVDs, to say nothing of bedroom linen, kitchen items and so on to find homes for.

Looking around the small cluttered beach house, he did wonder what on earth had made him pack quite so much.  In London, it had felt as if he were travelling light. In his darker moments, he wondered what Sally would do with all the stuff he'd left behind. Would she keep it until he returned, or would she want to be clear of anything that reminded her of him? He supposed she'd pay for a storage unit until his return - she wasn't vindictive.

Then he'd needed to sort out his new desk at work. Not that _that_ took a lot of work, but he'd spent half a day tidying away the few items he'd bought with him, made a little nervous by the curious but so far tolerant gaze of his three subordinates. He'd also spent some time looking through the files of open cases – not that there were many of them, as DI Poole was clearly quite efficient in tying up his investigations. They were mostly trivial matters of petty crime, such as minor smuggling, pickpocketing of hapless tourists and so on – the kind of work that Fidel and Dwayne would investigate sporadically, but put to one side if something more urgent arose.

The downfall of a small team, he soon discovered, was that there wasn't an awful lot of cover in place. Each night and at weekends, only one of the full-time team was theoretically 'on call' (in the sense that they kept the mobile phone to which all office calls were rerouted when the tiny police station was closed). In reality, however, all other team members, plus the team of keen civilian volunteers, had to be prepared to be called into action at any time, night or day. When there was a case, with so few staff, there was very little down-time to be had.

Having said that, it was rare that they _were_ called out at inconvenient hours. Humphrey was beginning to get used to 'Caribbean time'. Although Honore Police Station made an effort to maintain the standard 9-5 working day and to provide some cover outside that, the rest of the island did not. While he sweated his way through the torrid afternoon heat, working through files at his desk as Camille, Fidel and Dwayne drowsed at theirs, the rest of Sainte-Marie appeared to sleep. It soon became obvious to him that no one would think of the worse of him if he stepped out for a cool afternoon drink at Catherine's bar or even popped home for a couple of hours, least of all his fellow officers, who'd probably take the opportunity for a nap anyway.

He'd also learnt that if he wanted to do some manual work, it was best to do it early in the morning, before the day’s heat reached its peak. Hence this hammock-building exercise, on his first full day off since arriving.

The morning sun beat down on the back of his neck as he gazed rather hopelessly at the mess of parts. It should be easy. Probably _would_ be for anyone but _stupid old Humph_ , the acidic little alien voice at the back of his brain whispered.

He'd found the hammock in the house, still in its box and carefully stashed between a cupboard and the wall in the small kitchen area. It had a post-it note stuck to the side of it, covered in an untidy scrawl: " _Happy birthday, boss! Something to help you with getting that tan."_

Even if he hadn't recognised Dwayne's scrawl, he'd have known the likely sender. From what he now knew about Richard, nothing could surely have been quite as unwelcome as a hammock. Deferential Fidel wouldn't have had the nerve to give his DI such a jokey gift and no-nonsense Camille wouldn't have considered wasting her money. Richard had clearly grimaced at the hammock and stowed it in its current location without another thought. Fidel and Dwayne had either not noticed it or decided to leave it when they packed up Richard's possessions.

It had given Humphrey another insight into Richard. The diary had given him a strong sense of what Richard thought of his team, but this irreverent gift was interesting, because it suggested that his team had felt at ease with him. It didn't fit with the image of a stiff, unrelenting, humourless DI that Humphrey had received from colleagues back in London.

Well. Humphrey wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Richard might not have appreciated the sun, sea and sand, but _he_ certainly would – once he'd got the bloody thing sorted out. He pulled a face at the lizard on the verandah.

"Always read the instructions, Harry. Sally drummed it into me… ever since the great shelving collapse of 2003." He frowned at the instruction leaflet – who the hell _wrote_ these things, and why did the accompanying illustrations bear absolutely no resemblance to the pieces that had come out of the box? Surely he couldn't be _alone_ in finding these things utterly incomprehensible?

"Who needs instructions – how hard can it be?" he muttered, and then gasped in pain as he cut his finger.

With his bad luck, Humphrey was no stranger to minor accidents and always made sure he had a plaster somewhere in the vicinity. He continued to mutter, apparently to the lizard, but mostly to himself, as he clumsily attempted to staunch the blood and apply a plaster one-handed.

"So… we plough on regardless and inevitably end up bleeding. Not _entirely_ unlike my marriage, it seems. Well, I can't really put a sticking plaster on that, can I?" he added, rather bitterly, as he finally succeeded in sticking the dressing over the cut.

This oddly bitter mood was new to him; Humphrey was used to looking on the bright side. Why, then, did he currently feel as if he'd wasted some of the best years of his life on a relationship that had been doomed right from the start?

He shook his head impatiently – no good turning sour over it. That way led to… well, he only had to look at that damn diary, currently hidden under his mattress, to know _precisely_ where it might lead. He forced himself to look on the bright side – he was already making changes to his life. _Soon have this hammock up_ , he thought to himself, as he cut the string, _and then I'll… oh_ …

He sighed as he read further on in the instructions and realised his mistake. As he held the useless pieces of cord in his hands, he wondered precisely when they had become a symbol for his marriage. _Was_ there something he could have done to salvage it? Hadn't he always done precisely what Sally had wanted? Was that, in fact, the _real_ problem?

His thoughts wandered to his team, wondering absently what they made of him. He had no concern about their ability to run the station in his absence, but he wondered whether they might be discussing him – their new boss. He imagined Dwayne making some droll comment regarding his appearance or eccentricities or clumsiness. Fidel might reprimand him, but would be secretly amused. And Camille? Would she even care? Would she come to his defence? Or was she still consumed by grief over Richard's loss?

Of the three of them, it was Camille that concerned him the most. She had started out openly hostile to him, but during the investigation into Richard's death, had softened considerably. However, since the night she'd visited him after he'd discovered the diary, she had grown quiet. Perfectly polite and friendly, of course, and she was a diligent sergeant, but she didn't initiate any conversation – she would speak only if spoken to. From time to time, she would stare into space, her eyes distant, and might not respond immediately if someone addressed her.

He didn't know her well enough to tell if this was the real Camille, but he couldn't help thinking that it was not. The reactions of her fellow officers and mother were enough proof. Catherine could hardly hide her anxiety and Fidel frequently threw her a puzzled look. Dwayne gave nothing away, but Humphrey noticed that when she was particularly quiet and unresponsive, he would pat her shoulder or give her arm an encouraging squeeze as he passed her.

His comment about not being able to put a sticking plaster over his marriage had made him think of Camille again. In a sense, it was much easier for him to move on – he was out of familiar territory and starting again in a place where everything was a new and distracting challenge. _She_ didn't have that luxury. What must it _do_ to her to have to go into that office every day and see a new man sitting at Richard's desk? How did she feel about driving the familiar route to his home and seeing untidy, awkward Humphrey waiting for her, instead of fastidious Richard in his dark suit? He wondered at the fact that she hadn't already sought a temporary reassignment away from the island – and then considered, a little uneasily, whether she still might. He'd approve a move if that was what she wanted, of course, but it would leave him with just Fidel for his DS, and the younger officer lacked Camille's experience.

It was almost a relief when the object of his thoughts rang his phone and he had to go and solve the mysterious murder of a stand-in girl on a film set. _Game face, Humphrey_.

* * *

 

It was ironic that one of the few topics that appeared to raise any enthusiasm in Camille was the supposed imminent arrival of Sally. Again and again, she would remind him of the fact… and again and again, he would open his mouth and try to tell her… but then he would see the spark in her eyes and that crooked little half-smile that animated her beautiful face, and he couldn't bear to.

Perhaps she clung to this subject as proof that _someone_ at least was in a happy relationship – maybe it lessened her own pain in some way. His heart sank ever further at the prospect of having to tell her the truth…which he would have to do very soon.

He'd made the mistake of telling her early on exactly when Sally was due to arrive, which was of course before he'd realised that she wouldn't be coming after all. Unfortunately, Camille seemed to have something of an eidetic memory (he suspected it was one of the reasons why she'd been deployed to undercover work in the past), and took almost any opportunity to remind him of the date and time.

Despite this, he was quite unprepared to have a bunch of flowers thrust into his hand as she turned the car towards the airport on the appointed day. Something else he'd learned about Camille was that, once on a case, she could be pretty single-minded and stubborn; he thought of it as rather a French characteristic. Soft, half-embarrassed objections didn't seem to work and eventually he had had to resort to shouting to get her to listen to him.

As soon as the car screeched to a halt, he stumbled out and walked, a little blindly, away from her. Now that it was inevitable, he didn't know where to start.

She followed him. "Her plane lands in 15 minutes!"

He forced himself to face her. "Yes…her plane gets here, but she won't be on it." He smiled, tentatively. "In fact, you could hardly call it her plane, really."

"She's not coming?" Her expression was still uncomprehending. It seemed almost perverse of her not to understand without further explanation, especially in view of her own abortive romance with his predecessor.

"She and I…" he stuttered, "- well, we're still married, obviously, but…our marital status is presently…"

Understanding appeared in those intelligent dark eyes. "You've split up with her."

"Or rather she's split up with me, so…" He shrugged, helplessly. "Anyway… it's just one of those things."

"I'm really sorry."

"Bit of a shock…" He met her eyes, forcing himself to admit it. "Although, if I'm totally honest, it's probably been on the cards for a while."

"Doesn't make it any easier," she replied, softly; strangely gentle for hard-headed Camille.

"Not sure how I'm going to muddle along without her," he admitted, sheepishly. "I'm a perfect _dunce_ when it comes to… well, _life_ really."

It was only the truth, after all. What _had_ he been before Sally? Just a lowly detective inspector, plodding along in Bournemouth and probably destined to live out his life in the provinces, with no chance of promotion or recognition. Whatever else she'd done, at least she'd encouraged him to make more of himself.

" _No_ , you're _not_ -." It might have just been a polite denial, but he sensed a little more animation in her voice even as he shook his head.

" _Yes_. Yes, I _am_. I couldn't get anything right in the end. Even the little things…" He laughed bitterly, not wanting to say it, but somehow those sympathetic eyes seemed to draw more out of him than he wanted to say and he found himself gabbling, hardly even aware of what he was saying. "I – I'd make her a gin and tonic – ice, slice, dash of tonic, a – and I'd forget it had to be slimline – _silly Humph_. Couldn't even get _that_ right."

He stopped abruptly, flushing with embarrassment. The sweat prickled his spine and he suddenly felt cold despite the thirty-five degree heat. He hadn't meant to… _reveal_ so much. What would she think of him now? Cool, level-headed, oh so clever Camille. How she must _miss_ Richard Poole. That logic-driven, efficient, intelligent man… No wonder she'd fallen in love with him - who _wouldn't_? Even in the midst of his shamed misery, his heart ached for her and for him.

She seemed lost in thought for a moment, her eyes distant, before looking up at him again, her face animated. "Maybe you – being _here_ ," she gestured with her hands in that lively French manner he'd already grown to… _what?...love_? "Maybe it's the fresh start you need."

" _Absolutely_." He forced a smile. _Game face, Humphrey_. "New page, clean slate, square one and all that – yes. So, right…" He laughed again, embarrassed. "It's all rather awkward, oversharing with a colleague."

She grimaced, seeming a little embarrassed herself. "Not at all – you know, any time." Her voice, her manner, her face – all was gruffly professional once more. He had the strong impression that she generally preferred to keep her feelings to herself. It seemed unnatural to her, and he wondered whether she had tried to restrain her more 'French' characteristics and emotions out of concern for Richard's sensibilities. If so, that was a shame, for he found he rather liked this version of Camille, even if she _was_ just being kind.

He almost wanted to laugh at himself, and would have done if he didn't fear offending her. What a _ridiculous_ thing to blather on about! Not being able to get a gin and slim right… how utterly _banal_! How…

 _Oh_. _Wait a minute, though_ …

* * *

 

When the case had been wrapped up, Thea Holmes' killer was safely behind bars, the dreaded paperwork was complete and he was – at last! – lying in the hammock, he found his mind returning to his earlier conversation with Camille. It seemed _silly_ to dwell on what she must think of him – silly to even imagine that she gave him a single thought when he wasn't there.

He had no doubt of her empathy – possibly, in some ways, his own unhappiness may have made him more human in her eyes. She might even forgive him his eccentricities – who knew? But, in any case, he was being selfish. How could he compare his own problems with hers? If he wanted to, there was nothing to stop him handing in his notice, getting on a plane and going back to Sally who was, after all, _still_ his wife. If he tried hard enough, he _could_ get her back.

Which rather beggared the question why he _hadn't_ gone straight back. It was just a job, after all, and he'd be more than welcome back at the Met. If she would have been so unhappy here, then why on earth wasn't he prepared to move back? Surely, if he loved her, he'd want to make her happy… Wouldn't he?

Deep in thought, he suddenly noticed the lizard on the verandah rail. As the delicate little creature jumped on his chest and the flimsy hammock gave way, sending him crashing onto the sand, he couldn't help wondering, just for a minute, exactly _who_ had left _who_.

 


	5. Chapter 5

"And so I told her that if she wanted to set me up again, she should probably – _Sir_! Are you listening to a word I'm saying?"

"Hmm? Oh yes, of course I am. What's with the 'sir', though? We're off duty now."

His DS gave him one of her dazzling smiles to show that she forgave his distraction. Humphrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another sip of his cold drink.

The diary was stuffed in his back pocket and currently felt as if it was burning a hole in his trousers. He'd pulled on a Hawaiian shirt to disguise its distinctive shape. It was one of those awful ones that Dwayne had been derisive of, but at least had the advantage of being suitably baggy. He still wasn't absolutely sure that he was making the right decision.

It was the appearance of Camille's father that had first put the idea in his mind. First of all, he'd considered posting the little notebook off to Richard's parents – had gone so far as to check the address in his predecessor's murder file – but something had made him hold off. He'd dithered over what to do for almost five months now.

He'd received certain impressions – from Poole's colleagues both here and in London; from the diary itself; from the man's neat organisation of files and notes. He didn't think that Richard had been a particularly happy man, not prior to his arrival in Sainte-Marie at any rate. A man who had been isolated at work and a limited social success at University was unlikely to have had a happy childhood, whereas the diary had revealed flashes of happiness here on the island. For most of his life, Richard had been a square peg in a round hole but somehow had found his niche in this most unlikely of locations.

Looking around the office, Humphrey had often found it hard to believe that Richard had managed to work here. He should have been appalled by the lack of uniformity, the quite blatant disregard of regulations, the lack of resources and scarcity of decent investigative equipment, frequently having to conduct his own experiments to avoid waiting for results from the forensics department on Guadeloupe. Dwayne's flouting of the rules must have driven him _mad_ , and as for Camille, habitually dressing in as few clothes as she could possibly get away with while working…not that she wasn't pleasant to look at, but Humphrey felt that it was _most_ unfair, when _he_ was still required to wear trousers and a shirt at least, even if he had forgone the tie as early as decently possible. How Richard had managed to carry on working in his dark suit and tie without expiring in this tropical heat, he had no idea.

The team and the job must have had _something_ going for them, though. As the diary went on, Richard's enthusiasm for his job had increased. As he began to settle into his new job, Humphrey began to understand why.

There was satisfaction to be found in the solving of a case with such a small team. Back at the Met, he'd been involved in some high-profile cases, notably the people-trafficking ring, but always as part of a much larger team. And yes, there'd be a round of drinks on the DCI for the entire team when a big case was concluded, but it was easy to get lost in the crowd. _Here_ , he was able to feel more in control of the cases and when the murderer had been apprehended and shipped off to the larger prison facilities on neighbouring Guadeloupe, he had a much stronger idea of the roles played by each member of the team and a greater sense of achievement.

In addition to Camille, Dwayne and Fidel, there was a small team of special constables who patrolled the island, dealt with minor incidents such as driving offences, and manned the station overnight and at weekends (although one of the central team remained officially on duty at all times, day and night). In addition to this, Humphrey could request the support of the larger police force on Guadeloupe, but so far he had managed his cases with his own team…and he'd grown enormously proud of them over the months. Proud…and fond.

Five months! Had it _really_ been that long? And yet, in many ways, he felt that he was finally starting to fit in.

Admittedly, it had taken a while – Humphrey's enthusiasm had been hindered by his lack of understanding of the Caribbean way of life and his unerring ability to mistake the tourist traps for the real thing. Each time he made a mistake, he could almost see the word 'grockle' forming on the lips of his colleagues – or whatever the Sainte-Marie equivalent was. But they'd smile and he'd laugh off the mistake and learn from it. Now, when he walked barefoot along the sand from his beach house towards the seafood stalls, the traders would recognise him and be able to recommend something he'd like. He knew how to haggle at the market stalls, knew how to avoid buying imported food at inflated prices; he even knew where the best hole-in-the-wall restaurants were located. He'd learnt how to drive safely on the rough roads (although he was happy to leave that activity to his DS as much as possible) and was reasonably confident in navigating his way around the small island if he needed to.

And he'd also learnt to navigate his way into a reasonably positive working relationship with each of his colleagues. Fidel was easy – a pleasant, hard-working keen young Sergeant. In his diary and in Fidel's own files, Richard had noted his ambition and determination, and Humphrey tended to agree that the young officer was destined for greater things. He hoped that he wouldn't lose the ambitious Fidel to the brighter lights of the Guadeloupe police department or beyond, but then, his family were likely to keep him well-grounded in Sainte-Marie.

Dwayne was trickier, but they had developed a healthy respect for each other's methods. A _lack_ of ambition was the constable's main issue, but Humphrey had no real problems with that. Every police department needed its 'insider' – someone who knew his way around the local petty crime scene. Also, he appreciated Dwayne's instinctive ability to keep Fidel out of trouble.

The toughest nut to crack had been Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey. Humphrey had worked with plenty of female officers in his time and usually had no problems getting along with them, but Camille could be… _prickly_. She was changeable - one minute quite laid back and 'Caribbean', the next utterly and passionately 'French'. She could be stormy if a case bothered her, and he had noticed that any case involving children or less-than-perfect fathers could provoke a snappy mood that would last several days.

When he met Camille's own father, he understood why. Until then, he'd been careful not to get involved in her private life, not really fancying being at the receiving end of her sharp tongue. But the encounter with her father had reminded him uncomfortably of his own family problems. He'd felt for Catherine as well as for Camille, and had hated to see tension mar the easy affection between mother and daughter. For once, he'd found himself getting involved in a colleague's personal affairs, and although he'd felt terribly uncomfortable and _English_ about the whole thing, he was glad that he had.

He had been particularly embarrassed about his conversation with Camille outside the station, mentally cringing even as he spouted words about what a great job her mother had done in bringing her up. He'd hoped and prayed Camille wouldn't view his admiring comments as an appalling attempt to chat her up. It certainly wasn't his intention to do so – not that she _wasn't_ – that he _wouldn't_ …but _no_. _Entirely_ inappropriate.

To his relief, Camille had appeared to take his awkward little speech at face value, and they had moved on as normal – except that their relationship wasn't _quite_ normal. There was something between them now – a quiet intimacy that went unacknowledged but was, nevertheless, _there_. Suddenly, Humphrey knew that if he needed a friend to talk to, she would be his first choice. Ironic that a French-Caribbean woman that he'd known less than half a year had become his closest confidante.

And she seemed to seek him out too. Not often, and not obviously, but there were subtle signs. She would turn up at the beach house unexpectedly, early on Saturday mornings, with two cups of coffee and a casual offer to show him some of the less well-known parts of the island while they weren't on duty. During a case, whenever she drove him home, it was now taken for granted that she would get out and join him on his verandah for a cold beer and a chat over the events of the day.

And the traditional Friday night drink went without saying. Humphrey reflected that it must be a universal practice – that in every country, there were detective inspectors buying their junior officers an obligatory beer in the local 'cop's bar' on a Friday night (or whatever the local beverage of choice might be). In this case – much to his continuing bemusement – the drink of choice was one of Catherine's lethal rum punches and the location just happened to be a tropical island.

And another unusual element was that his DS wasn't some gruff grizzled old sergeant, but instead a really quite _ridiculously_ beautiful woman. Admittedly, the form-fitting red dress was more likely to have been aimed at tonight's would-be blind date – yet another of Catherine's well-meaning arrangements, which had fallen through almost immediately when Camille had noticed him eyeing up a handsome young man in the mirror behind the bar. However, Humphrey didn't think he'd _ever_ seen Camille dressed in anything that didn't look as if it had been tailor-made for her.

He grinned weakly. "So I take it you've told Catherine to lay off the blind dates for now?"

Camille gave a mock-shudder. "I thought the last attempt was bad enough!" She shook her head, smiling slightly. "I know she means well… I guess she wants at least the _chance_ of grandchildren, one day. And she doesn't want me -."

She stopped, but Humphrey finished the sentence for her. "She doesn't want you to be lonely."

She sighed, instantly sobering. "She does mean well, but - ."

 _But you're not ready to move on_.

He didn't say it out loud. He'd never openly acknowledged Camille's carefully hidden feelings for her former DI. It was an irony that those closest to her probably knew much more about her feelings than she realised – certainly Dwayne and her mother had guessed. But what good would it do to talk about them? Camille was a proud woman working in a tough profession. She didn't give her heart easily – it must have taken a lot for Richard to gain that privilege – and she might be embarrassed if she thought that her feelings had been so obvious to those around her.

She looked away from him towards the glittering water, her face serious. It was a slightly cooler Friday evening, if that meant anything in this torrid location, and a light breeze ruffled her curls. Humphrey found himself staring at her profile, mesmerised. Her features were fine and dark, almost Italianate with that strong nose and beautifully sculpted mouth. At times like this, she could look imposing, almost off-putting, but he knew her well enough by now to see behind the carefully constructed mask.

Most of the time, she was simply one of 'the gang'; both a quick-witted no-nonsense cop and an easy-going, sunny young woman, who knew how to have fun. However, there was also a certain sensitivity in her, a gentleness that one wouldn't normally associate with tough DS Bordey. He noticed it at random moments. At crime scenes, when an expression of pity would cross her face at the sight of another murder victim. At the bar whenever she gave her mother a glance of gentle, tolerant affection. In the little smile on her lips whenever Fidel proudly displayed photos of his tiny daughter. During moments at the beach house when she would sit on the sand next to him, silently gazing out at a calm sea.

She looked back suddenly, catching his gaze, and he broke it quickly, feeling a prickling sensation of embarrassment as he fiddled with his glass. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded normal, though.

"So, where are Fidel and Dwayne? It's not like them to miss the Friday evening drink."

"Oh, we cancelled, when you mentioned the date." He risked looking up at her, grinning sheepishly. She looked a little flushed, but otherwise composed. "Fidel said something about getting his mother-in-law to babysit tonight, and Dwayne was last seen chatting up a rather pretty tourist. And since I assumed you wouldn't be free…"

She laughed. "I should not have allowed _Maman_ to organise the date for a Friday evening anyway. It does no good to break a tradition."

"A _tradition_?" He laughed. "I've only been here a few months, Camille."

She lifted her glass to him in an ironic toast. "You think we didn't meet here on a Friday night before you arrived, Humphrey?"

"Oh – well, of course you would have." It'd been on the tip of his tongue to say he hadn't expected Richard to be that sociable, bearing in mind his behaviour at the Met. And yet, the diary had hinted at particular occasions…

To take his mind off it, he asked: "So what made Camille Bordey join the police force, then?"

"Ah – well, that's a story." She laughed and knocked back her drink. "In fact, it is quite simple. It was the only profession that made sense to me – you know? I was OK at school, I guess. I was good at sports and languages and computer science and average at everything else. I enjoyed adventures. I didn't want to end up in an office somewhere. And no profession really appealed – _Maman_ thought I might become a nurse, but it would have been wrong for me. But I liked solving puzzles, and I had a strong sense of justice, and – and it just seemed _right_. Also, it was a chance to get away."

He raised his eyebrows at this, and she made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I love Sainte-Marie. I grew up here. But there's not much opportunity – not if you're ambitious. And, back then, to _this_ bright young teenager, everyone seemed so - so… _parossiale_ – I don't know how you would translate that."

He grinned. "Well, I don't speak French, but I think I can make an educated guess at 'parochial'. That's sort-of how I felt about where I grew up too."

She smiled at him. "Did you? You must tell me more about that. Well, I was so arrogant, so sure of myself. _Maman_ wanted me to settle down and find myself a young man. I didn't want that."

"So you made your escape."

She nodded. "I had been thinking of moving to Guadeloupe, but then there was a police training programme I could go on, and it was in Paris where _Maman_ grew up, and I hadn't been there apart from a visit to family when I was small. Paris -," she smiled as if in reminiscence, "– was _brilliant_. So beautiful, so – so _vibrant_! So many people, and all so smart and full of life! I expected to stay there much longer than I did. And there was a man for a while…it didn't last." She gave an expressive shrug. "He wasn't in the police and it became difficult to get the balance between the work and my personal life. I was doing a lot of specialist training and he wouldn't hear from me for a couple of weeks at a time... But for a while there… well, I was happy, I think."

She sobered a little and he tried to distract her. "From what _I_ hear, you were more of a female James Bond than a street copper."

She laughed, throwing him an amused look that told him she knew _exactly_ what he was trying to do. " _Oui_. That was _fun_. After training, I moved into undercover work. It suited me – I had to be fit, good with computers, able to think on my feet… And I had to be a good actor."

 _And that's something that you're extremely good at, I suspect_.

She carried on, apparently oblivious to his thoughts. "I was good at it. No two days were the same and the adrenaline rush was incredible. Well, I worked in Paris on various small cases for eighteen months and then there was a longer case in Marseilles, and another in Morocco, and by the time I returned to Paris, it didn't seem so exciting."

He nodded as he picked up his rum punch. He understood _that_ , from his own experiences out in the field on the people-trafficking case, followed by the boredom of more regular work back in London. Not that _he_ could have gone undercover – he'd have been hopeless trying to assume a new identity – but he could imagine Camille being excellent at it.

She frowned, thoughtfully. "I didn't expect to find myself moving back to the Caribbean _quite_ so quickly, but I was looking to move _somewhere_. For a while, I even thought about applying to the British police force…" She laughed as Humphrey choked on the mouthful he had just taken and nearly spat it back into his glass. "That would have been funny – non? I might have met you there!"

" _Me_ – oh, no. I only moved there just after you started working with Richard." He was still reeling from imagining the impact she would have had on the grumpy old coppers at the Met. She would certainly have brightened up the Friday night pint.

She seemed to sense his thoughts. "Yes, well. I wouldn't have fit in there at _all_! I could tell that after Richard arrived."

"Um, well Richard wasn't _all_ that typical of the Met," he ventured cautiously, not sure whether or not this conversation was moving into dangerous territory.

Her smile vanished, very quickly. "No, I know that. He was treated badly by his colleagues." Her voice was flat.

"Yes, I think he rather was."

"It was unfair of them! They did not know what they lost…" She frowned and then shook herself visibly and carried on with her story, with the air of a woman determined not to dwell on certain issues. Her voice, which had grown a little intense, seemed to lighten again. "Anyway, as it turned out, a job came up in Guadeloupe – the people-trafficking case, which led to the murder that Richard was sent here to solve. Due to my background, my Commissionaire had recommended me for the job. And then, almost as soon as I stepped back on Saint-Marie, my cover got blown!" She shrugged again. "The Commissioner here offered me a reassignment, and it made sense to take it. It would have been too dangerous for me to go back into undercover work. _So_ – there you are." She smiled, a little wryly. "I tried to escape, but I ended up back where I started. I suspect Fate."

He wondered whether her embarrassed little smile at the mention of ‘fate’ was a learned response. Richard was all logic and scientific fact, while Camille was all about intuition and finely-honed instinct. Richard's diary had hinted at some tension between the two detectives' very different approaches. Was she used to being on the receiving end of Richard's derision about superstitious beliefs?

"I agree," he surprised himself by saying.

"You _do_?" Her own surprise was obvious.

"Yes – well, that is, I believe that there's a place that _fits_ us. I grew up in a small rural village, as I mentioned before, and I hated the place. The people were so…set in their ways. I was happy for a bit by the coast in Bournemouth, and then I was in London…" He looked past the lights of Catherine’s bar towards the gently lapping sea. "And all I could think was that I didn't fit _there_ either. The people were nice enough, and I had friends and Sally of course, and a nice social life, I suppose. But I felt _hemmed in_ on all sides."

"But that is how I came to feel about Paris!" she exclaimed, excitedly. "I felt… _suffocated._ "

"Yes, yes, that's it exactly! Suffocated…" He mulled on the word for a few minutes. He hadn't thought of it before, but was that how _Sally_ had made him feel in the end? He had known that things were wrong and, in a sense, had come to blame that on the oddly enclosed London society they had found themselves in. He had genuinely thought that a fresh start in a new place like Sainte-Marie would have saved them, but now he was not so sure. Would that feeling of suffocation have, in fact, _intensified_ on this island with its small community?

"And now you are here?"

He smiled. "It's such a beautiful place, and the people are interesting, and I love the way of life… I know that you and the others think I'm just some kind of over-enthusiastic tourist and that one day I'll pack my bags and head back to London, but for _me_ …this _works_." He shook his head and refused to meet her eyes, a little embarrassed by his words. "I know it sounds impossibly naff, Camille, but I really believe that I was _meant_ to come here."

"We don't think that." Her voice was soft.

"What?" Reluctantly, he looked up at her face, but there was no derision in it. She wasn't smiling either.

"We – Dwayne and Fidel and I - we don't think you are a tourist." She gave him an oddly intense look before looking down at her hands.

The warm glow _definitely_ wasn't just from the rum. "Oh, I see… _thank you_. That means… That's – it's _good_. Good to know."

They were silent for a while, as the buzz of conversation continued around them. Then Camille stirred and picked up her empty glass. "Will you have another drink?"

"Er…no, I don't think I will, but thank you." Abruptly, his mind was made up. Now was the time.

"Are you sure?" She smiled at him. "Only one tonight? But it _is_ a Friday night, with no work tomorrow, and the night is still young…"

"Camille, there's… there's something I need to tell you. Well, show you, actually. Would you just wait a minute…?"

She had got up to collect the glasses, but when he grabbed her arm, she subsided again, with a quizzical smile. "Of course, but what is it?"

He was fumbling under his shirt, trying to retrieve the book from his back pocket. As he finally succeeded in pulling it free, he could sense her amusement.

"It's…this." He placed the book on the table between them.

"What is it?" She picked it up and opened it, her smile fading. "Is this…?  It's _Richard's_ writing!"

"Yes. It's his diary."

She put the book down and looked up at him in confusion. "But… but _when_ …?"

He sighed, but it had to be said. "I'm not going to lie to you, Camille. I could pretend that I'd only just found that, but it wouldn't be true. I've had it in my possession for five months now."

He spoke slowly and carefully. Looking at her face, he could see a myriad of emotions flitting over it, shock followed by grief, and then anger, and then back to shock. Scarcely aware of his actions, he found his hand moving across the table to cover one of her own.

"I didn't know what to do with it. He had hidden it, so I was sure that he wouldn't want anyone to read it. And I didn't know you all back then. I could tell that the three of you cared about him a great deal, but I didn't know what would be the best course of action. I didn't _know_ , Camille, you _have_ to believe me. And I didn't know Richard either – I never knew him, although I would have liked to. And I respect him, so I had to make the right decision."

"So why _now_? Why show it to me _now_?"

He sighed.  "Because I _want_ you to have it. Because… because I think that out of _all_ the people he knew, he would have wanted _you_ to read it…and only you."

Her hand moved from under his and she ran it gently over the leather cover – almost a caress. Her head was bent and he could no longer see her expression. "Have _you_ read it?"

"Yes." He had to admit that too. "I wish I hadn't, but I was trying to understand him. I thought the diary might give me a clue as to who it should be given to. You see…I think he _loved_ you, Camille. And I don't know if he ever had a chance to tell you and I have tried and _tried_ to decide whether he would have wanted you to hear it. I've been carrying it around for _weeks_ , trying to decide when and what to tell you…  Anyway, the point is, I think you _should_ read it now. I think you _need_ to. It should never have been read by a stranger, and I'm so, _so_ sorry that it was me who found it first." He hesitated, before adding gently, "I believe it should be read by – by someone who…loved him."

She was as still as a statue, but he sensed she was still listening. Her fingers slid across the book and curled around it tightly.

"Yes, I'm sorry I read it, but… at the same time, I'm _glad_. I'm glad I learned a little about Richard Poole. He was a remarkable man."

"Yes. He _was_." Her voice was a little muffled, as if she was holding back tears.

"I think I should leave you to it," he murmured, a little uncertain. He didn't care to leave her when she was so distressed, but instinct suggested that she needed to be alone with her memories.

"Yes. Yes, you should." He could _feel_ her retreating from him, her focus narrowing to the book in her hands.

He hesitated. "I'm so _sorry_ , Camille, please believe me…" It was barely a whisper.

"I know." She looked up then, giving him a shaky smile as a tear rolled down her cheek. "I _do_ know you are, Humphrey, and – and I believe you did the right thing... But I think I need to be alone just now."

"Of course."

He sat back and watched her walk away, the book held tightly across her chest with both hands. As if it were the most precious of possessions.

 


	6. Chapter 6

When Sally reappeared so suddenly in his life, Humphrey could say with certainty that it was completely, _entirely_ unexpected.

He'd done his best to be the ideal 'ex-husband-to-be' – was that even a term? – making sure he did everything that was requested of him. Sally had wanted to get things moving and, as she couldn't divorce him on grounds of adultery, she'd submitted an application based on 'desertion'.

The usually placid Humphrey had been somewhat outraged by this – how dare _she_ accuse _him_ of desertion? But, as his London-based solicitor had diplomatically pointed out, this was the solution most likely to achieve the required outcome. Humphrey quitting his secure, well-paid job to move to the Caribbean with very little notice, regardless of the circumstances at the time, and _then_ his refusal to return even though Sally hadn't followed him, _looked_ like unreasonable behaviour when seen in cold legal text. The alternative, trying to claim that Sally had deserted him because she _hadn't_ left her secure, well-paid UK-based job to move to the Caribbean where there were no obvious opportunities for her, would never have passed scrutiny. And, did he _really_ want this situation to drag on for two years, with Sally getting ever more frustrated with him?

At the moment, their relationship was reasonably amicable. Most communication was through their solicitors, but there had been a few slightly nervous, over-friendly e-mails and phone calls to discuss practicalities such as storage of his possessions and re-direction of his mail. He'd come to rely on these brief communications, feeling as if he still had some connection with his wife – _ex-wife_ – as long as they continued.

So, he'd obediently completed the paperwork, even getting Camille to double-check that he'd done everything exactly right. And then the letter arrived, announcing the decree absolute…and that was that. No more contact needed, no more discussion over the rights and wrongs of the situation. No further opportunity to put his foot down and say that _no_ , that this was _wrong_. He no longer had the right to take an interest in Sally's life.

Unfortunately, the letter had arrived at work. Nothing new there – the postal service to his beach house was sporadic, so he preferred to pick up his mail here. But it didn't help that the entire team were there at that very moment and that it was a quiet Friday, with no serious cases to be investigated. Fortunately, Camille had taken one look at his face, noted the postmark on the official-looking envelope, and had bustled Dwayne and Fidel out to take a "proper coffee break for a change".

By the time they'd returned, he'd plastered a smile on his face and was ready to get on with the day job. And if he'd been a little quiet over an after-work drink…well, it had been a particularly hot day and he had a bit of a headache, and then he was getting the house repainted the following day and needed to move some furniture, so it was only reasonable to leave early.

Camille had shown a great deal of delicacy in taking on some responsibility until he'd felt a little better about the situation. That alone showed how well she'd got to know him, since a _genuinely_ off-his-game Humphrey probably didn't seem all that different to his usual persona.

Over the last year, she'd become, without a doubt, the best DS he'd ever had. She might not be as obviously efficient as some of the eager beavers he'd come into contact with at the Met, but there was little that got past her. With some of his past detective sergeants, if he asked for some paperwork to be done, he could guarantee it would be presented ahead of time and in-triplicate if needed. He wouldn't get that kind of response from Camille, but what he _would_ get was common sense. If it was important, she would prioritise it, and he knew he could rely on her good judgement. And, more importantly, she understood his methods. There were still times when his behaviour left her scratching her head in confusion, but her trust was obvious. And he trusted her too – to pick up clues that he might have missed, and to have an understanding of the local situation and local psychologies that might have otherwise eluded him. All in all, he'd be loath to lose her.

Take the latest case – the apparent suicide of Dr Emma Redding at the retirement complex. It was Camille who had been the first to realise that it wasn't suicide after all; without her, Humphrey might not have picked up the significance of the party dress. It was a particularly frustrating case – how did one get past the fact that the door had been locked from the inside? And then there was something about some of the other residents that concerned him.

He was in full case mode, firing on all cylinders and talking to Camille about Jim and Pam Chandler – there was something about them, something almost like jealousy – when his DS jerked her head to the side, to alert him to the new arrival.

And there stood Sally. A little smile on her face. Murmuring something about how she should have called first.

His initial reaction had been paralysing shock – followed very quickly by fury. How _dare_ she appear here! _Here_ – where she quite certainly didn't belong!

He didn't recognise it as fury at that point. All he knew was that the two halves of his life seemed to have coalesced in the most bizarre way. Weird to think that only a few months' ago, he'd expected – had _wanted_ – Sally to join him here. Back then, he would have been delighted to see her, but now, all he could think was how utterly _wrong_ she looked. She'd attempted to dress for the part – the pale-skinned tourist sensibly protected from the sun in loose-fitting clothes and a hat – and even _that_ was bloody annoying. Trust Sally to manage to look as well turned out and as sensible as ever, even in the extreme heat of Saint-Marie.

Another part of him admitted that she looked as good as she had ever done.

As he stumbled his way through an embarrassed introduction, he found himself comparing her to Camille. No mere traveller, she. Utterly at home here, in this torrid tropical little corner of the earth. Completely, utterly right for Honore – just as right for the Caribbean as she would be wrong for the grey skies and bland faces of London.

And that was the _point_. There was no place for Sally in this crazy, upside-down world he had found himself in. Her practical appearance, her cool-headed logic, her very 'Englishness' had no basis here.

He'd made his arrangements to meet her at the bar later on in a strange daze, and for the rest of the day, she'd dominated his thoughts. Her appearance had unsettled him – reminded him of a past life that had not always been so bad…or was it just that humans were programmed only to remember the good times? His mind had kept returning to their early days in Bournemouth and the pretty, practical young science teacher he had fallen in love with.

Why was she _here_? And why _now_? He'd only recently emerged from a less-than-pleasant conversation with his father, during which he'd admitted that his marriage was over and then had endured as much recrimination as he could bear. Had his parents got in touch with Sally, tried to talk her around? It wasn't beyond the realms of possibility – she'd always got on well with them. But against that was the fact that Sally, once convinced she was right about something, was usually utterly determined to see it through.

So… _why_? And _why_ hadn't she phoned ahead to warn him? The possible reasons had turned over and over in his head all day, making him dizzy with expectation. By the time he'd turned up at the bar, having given his hair up as a bad job, he'd been ready to throw his life back into her hands.

At first, it was like old times, meeting for a drink at the end of a busy day. Her smile was gentle as she looked at him, and his heart ached as he asked the one 'why' that was probably the most important.

"Why aren't we married anymore?"

As she looked away from him, the words began to tumble out – words he'd never said to her in those stilted phone calls. "I still don't understand, I got your message and I listened to it, over and over, and it doesn't really tell me anything…except of course that you didn't really love me anymore which is…fair enough, but…" he looked at her, intently. "Did I do something wrong?"

He didn't know what he expected her reply to be. Was he about to find out that there was someone else, or was it simply that she didn't love him anymore? But he couldn't have predicted what she did say…and it held a ring of truth as she explained to him how she had got 'lost'.

She carried on, speaking frankly and with a heavy emphasis on certain words: "I was drowning in this never-ending whirlpool of niceness and understanding and routine. Everything was a _soggy fat huge predictable_ _blob_."

The words were an icy cold slap in the face.

His mouth seemed to form the word “sorry” without his frozen brain being aware of it.

She didn't seem to notice his reaction as she prattled on about how it was all her fault and how she thought she had wanted something new and exciting…

…And all he could think was… _something?_ … _Or someone_?

He must have made some form of reply, something slightly humorous, because she smiled at him: "I _miss_ how smart you are."

He looked up at her in astonishment. It wasn't the first time she'd referenced the intelligence that others often failed to notice, but it had always been in company, and he'd often wondered whether she’d really believed in it herself.

She reached across the table towards him, and his gaze dropped to the small, almost delicate hand covering his much-larger one. That was something that Humphrey had always loved about Sally – the physical contrast between them had always made him feel deeply protective of her. Belatedly, he wondered what she made of the fact that he still wore his wedding ring, and then he noticed the matching one on her own finger. He felt his hand curving slightly, wanting more than anything to twist his wrist and entwine his fingers with hers, as so often before.

But still those words hung heavy in the torpid air between them… _soggy…fat…huge…predictable_ …

"And I'm starting to realise that letting you go may well qualify as the biggest mistake I've ever made."

 _This can't be happening._ _It simply cannot be…_ His instinct at that moment was to flee, to put as much distance between them as possible…

Belatedly, she seemed to notice his distress and paled, reaching out towards him. "Humph – I just need -."

But he was already rising, stumbling away, hardly able to see. He was vaguely aware of Catherine by the bar, looking at him in concern, but she faded from his view and he turned away and fled into the night.

If Sally called out after him, he didn't hear.

* * *

 

Somehow he'd got himself back to the beach house. He didn't entirely remember how, but he was sitting on his chair, staring at the wall, so it had happened. Interesting that his sensory memory would automatically led him back here – back to _home_.

 _Home_. Funny that this rickety little beach house had never felt quite so strongly _his_ as it did tonight. For a long time, it had been Richard's or just simply the 'DI's house' – a post that he just happened to occupy at that moment in time. At any time, he expected the Commissioner to tell him that his tenure was over and that he'd be returning to London.

But tonight… He'd never really got around to considering his long-term future but suddenly he knew that he would fight tooth and nail to keep this job. _Not_ going to sleep to the gentle lapping of the water? _Not_ waking up to the harsh call of the tropical birds that nested in the trees? _Unthinkable._

He let out a shuddering sigh. He kept hearing her low, impassioned voice, spitting out those hateful words. _Soggy. Fat. Huge. Predictable. Blob._ Why did it feel as if those words had been directed at _him_ and not just at their life together? He'd written them down when he’d arrived home, but he hadn't really needed to – they were burnt into his memory.

Less than a minute later, she'd praised his intelligence. But what was true? Could he believe anything she said anymore?

He stood up and paced the small room, unable to keep still. _Why_ did she have to come here – and why _right now_ , when he was moving on with his life? When he'd tried _so bloody hard_ to get over her? It felt cruel, and his fury began to rise in him again.

What had she said? That she'd 'let him go', when it was _her_ who had abandoned _him_!

And yet…

And yet, she was _right_. She was always right, of course. They _had_ been drifting along in a boring, predictable routine. Just because it broke his heart to finally have it confirmed, that didn't mean she wasn't fundamentally correct.

He slept badly, physically exhausted but disturbed by his turbulent thoughts, both about Sally and the unsolved murder. Humphrey wasn't a great sleeper at the best of times, and particularly during a case. He had a few techniques that he used to help him drop off, but they weren't working tonight. It didn't help that he knew he'd have to face Sally the following day. This situation had to be resolved one way or another; it had been appallingly rude of him to walk away from her the way he had.

At one point, somewhere before sleeping and waking, he had a sensory memory of Sally leaning over him, her small hands pressing between his shoulder blades. It was a technique that she sometimes used when he couldn't sleep – rubbing gently down his spine and whispering soothing nonsense in his ear. His eyes fluttered open and he turned his head, drowsily seeking her mouth… The pressure on his back disappeared, but just before it did, he had the oddest impression that the hands pressing there so gently weren't pale like Sally's hands, but dark brown…

His eyes shot open and he turned over, but there was no one there of course.

He stared at the ceiling, bemused and troubled, before sleep finally overtook him.

* * *

 

He was woken by the shrill sound of his telephone. He rolled out of bed, falling heavily onto his knees; the pain shaking him fully awake.

"Uh…hello?"

"Humph?" The voice sounded tentative. "Is that you?"

"Sally?" He rubbed his sleepy eyes and rolled his shoulders, grunting as he worked the kinks out of his spine.

"Oh, did I wake you? You sound a bit... I'm sorry, it's a bit early, isn't it." She sounded embarrassed. "Jet lag. I didn't think…"

"No. No, it's fine." His mind began to clear a little. "Er – listen, about last night - ."

"No, please don't worry," she interrupted, quickly. "It was entirely my fault – I didn't mean to shock you…"

Her voice faded away. There was an expectant silence over the line, and after a few seconds, he cleared his throat.

"We need to talk some more."

"Yes, yes, we do." She spoke quickly, sounding relieved. "I was hoping… That is, can we meet again tonight? Only, I have to fly out tomorrow morning for a meeting in our Caribbean office. I can come back here before flying back to the UK, but -. "

"Yes," he said quickly, before he thought better of it. "Let's do that. Tonight, at Catherine's. Same time?"

"Yes." She paused, before adding, very quietly. "I _am_ sorry, Humphrey -."

"Yes, well, we can talk about it later. Right now, I have a job to do."

He put the phone down, slightly ashamed of his harsh tone, but then he really didn't want to get into a conversation right now. It was too early, for a start. And then there was the case…

Camille arrived at her usual time, half an hour before they had to leave for work. Usually, he'd put the kettle on and they'd have a coffee, sitting on the beach and enjoying the early morning peace before hitting the Honore rush hour traffic. After giving her Richard's diary, he'd feared that he'd ruined their friendship and that she'd stop this early morning routine, but his fears had been unfounded. It was true that she'd been a bit quiet and stilted for a couple of weeks, but her natural ebullience soon reasserted herself. Sometimes they'd sit in silence; sometimes they'd discuss the latest case in a lively manner, bouncing ideas off each other. Either way, it refreshed him; made him ready to face the day.

He hadn't made the coffee, but she didn't comment on that. Instead, it was all "Sir?" and professional concern. And yet, there was gentleness in her manner. Before she sat down next to him, she hesitated briefly, as if waiting for permission. He _hated_ that; it felt as if some of the intimacy had gone out of their friendship. Camille didn't normally feel the need to hesitate.

It occurred to him that he wasn't the only one affected by Sally's sudden appearance. He wondered what she made of the situation. She'd been carefully neutral. Friendly towards Sally and encouraging about his 'date' the previous evening. The perfect colleague, in fact.

He looked at her curiously, and noticed how wonderfully fresh she looked in the early morning light, in that pretty green blouse. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were guarded, as if there was some emotion that she was trying to hide.

He felt a moment of compunction. "I'm sorry, Camille, if I've been…preoccupied since Sally arrived. It's very unprofessional of me."

She denied it, but he insisted on it and determinedly turned his mind to the matter at hand: the results of the toxicology report and the additional confusion over the source of the poisoning.

Camille had accepted his wish not to discuss the situation, but after a minute, he found himself confessing. "Sally wants to give it another go."

She hesitated for just a fraction before asking him, tentatively, "Is that what you want?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

As he told her about the arrangement to meet up, something a little complicated seemed to pass across her face before it settled back into neutrality once more. She _seemed_ encouraging, but he needed more than that – he wanted her to _tell_ him, once and for all, what to do. She so clearly wanted to give an opinion, but he understood why she wouldn't – why she felt that she had no right to influence him. In an odd way, her diffidence warmed his heart.

As the day passed, his mind was a little more focused on the case. He sensed, as so often before, that the case was going to come to a climax today, if not tomorrow. However, as they flitted between the station and the retirement community, checking out the stories of Jim and Pam Chandler and David Witton, he had some time to turn his mind to his conundrum: should he say 'yes' to Sally?

There was no doubt that he still had feelings for her, but he wasn't clear about their nature. There was affection for their shared past, particularly the good times in the early days, and he was still attracted to her.

He looked at Pam, sobbing in Jim's arms, and reflected on how easy it was for communication to break down, even in the happiest of marriages. Had Pam's jealousy led her to murder Emma? He prayed not. But as he witnessed the moment of intimacy between a husband and wife facing illness and death once more, he tried to imagine himself and Sally, retired and in cosy domesticity, with grey hair and ageing bodies. He couldn't quite manage it.

And then he reflected on David's sad story, and his comment about "everyone having someone", even as something in the back of his mind clicked at the sight of Judith Musgrove and Colin Campbell by the pool. Yes, it _would_ be good to have Sally back in his life. He _could_ make it work. Everyone would like her – Camille already seemed quite positive about her. He wouldn't be lonely anymore.

As he sat at the bar, two rum punches on the table, he had finally made his mind up. He would say "yes", and everything would be sorted out between them at last. He visualised happy evenings, sipping rum punches in the bar, with the boys and Camille and Catherine dropping by to say hello. Sally, looking tanned and relaxed, as happy as she had been in Bournemouth, before London had claimed her from him.

The date started badly though. Sally hated the rum punch, and when he tried to tell her about his difficult day, interrupted him to change her order to the inevitable gin and slim. His heart sank. So far, so typical Sally. It could just as easily have been one of their evenings in London, with Humphrey wanting to offload the stresses of the day and Sally only half-concentrating.

And _then_ , as Dwayne and Fidel interrupted and charmed her again (and she did a good job of charming them back), it seemed possible once more. They relaxed and laughed over his silly story of falling out of the window while dazed by jet-lag.

And yet, even then, she was still trying to manipulate him. Telling him she missed him and prompting him to return the sentiment. Even as he answered, he couldn't help comparing her with Camille's quiet support this morning. Never pushing. Never trying to manipulate or influence. Why hadn’t he noticed that emotional manipulation in Sally before?

"Of course I miss you…." He paused, and then went on, determinedly. It _had_ to be said, however much it may hurt. "Something you said yesterday…" He felt in his pocket. "I wrote it down, sorry…I thought it was important to remember what you said."

At first, she was amused and a little patronising as he fumbled in his pocket for the scrap of paper. Not that he needed it, as he remembered every word. But as he repeated what she had said, her face dropped. "Humphrey…"

He raised his hand to stop her. "No, let me finish. You see, you were right - to feel that way. That's exactly how it was – for me too... I thought if we could start anew – find something different together, find something exciting, get out of our 'soggy blob'… we could be like we used to be."

She puts a hand over his. "That's what I _want_ to do."

"But you _didn't_ , did you, Sal? You didn't come with me. I was here, waiting for our fresh start, and you left me a message on an answerphone!" Suddenly, he saw her exactly for what she was, and struggled with his composure. "I was trying to save _us_ and you were trying to save _yourself_."

He looked away from her, and found his eyes going towards Dwayne and Fidel. He saw that Camille had joined them. He watched as she tilted her head towards Fidel, her smile warm, a glint in her eye…

And, quite suddenly, he saw plain. And understood, _finally_ , why he had been feeling so reluctant to try again.

His thoughts racing, he struggled to focus his attention back on Sally. "So I _found_ different, and I _found_ new and I _found_ exciting… and I did all that _without you_. I'm someone else now, Sal."

Even now, there was disbelief in her small, pained laugh. "Don't be _ridiculous_."

"It's _true_." How to make her understand – make her see the truth? He cast around desperately, and his gaze fell on their drinks. "I'm – I'm rum punch and _you're_ still gin and slim."

"Oh, _God_ …" There was pain in her face now, along with the lingering disbelief. He could see that she simply couldn't believe that she would not be getting her way as usual. He had never refused her before. "You're _dumping_ me."

"I'm sorry, Sal." And he _was_ , really quite genuinely – his heart broke for her. "It's not what I wanted, it's just…what happened. You _made_ it happen."

He saw by the anguish in her face that she _did_ – at last – understand. As she gave a stifled gasp and fled from the table, he made an abortive effort to stop her… but what would be the point?

He bent his head, overwhelmed by grief – both for him, for his year of bewilderment, and for her, for poor Sally, who had been thwarted for perhaps the first time in her life. For their shared life, which _had_ been good at times. He remembered the optimism, the happiness…and mourned it quietly, even as the relief spread through his body.

He felt quite calm and resolved, as he gave Camille the news. She sank into a chair, appearing to consider the implications. Once more, that oddly complicated expression flitted across her face.

"First time _you_ walked out – and now _her_?"

He frowned, suddenly. "You weren't _here_ the first time."

He was rewarded by a look of extreme embarrassment on his DS's face as she glanced towards the bar. "I was hiding."

"Oh…" Oddly, this seemed to break the tension. He was amused to discover that even Sally couldn't affect Camille's fundamental curiosity. He wondered what she had really made of his ex-wife, and whether she would now be prepared to tell him… but now was not the time, as he drained his punch and ordered her to "get me extremely drunk and then pour me into a cab".

* * *

 

The relief of knowing that he'd made the right decision seemed to unblock something in his mind. The next day, he was firing on all cylinders once more, unmasking Judith as Emma's murderer and cheerfully joining the rest of the gang for a celebratory drink, although he cautiously stuck to beer this time.

But something had changed. He hadn't had time to analyse it fully, but as Dwayne took the two women off for a dance, he watched Camille, feeling oddly at peace with the situation.

When Fidel commiserated him about Sally, he was shocked to realise that he hadn't given her a single thought since the previous night, not even at the time her plane had left the island this morning, presumably for the last time ever. He ought to feel a little guiltier about that than he actually did, but his mind was focused on the successful resolution of the case and a new understanding of his feelings. How long had he felt this way about Camille?

In an odd way, he felt he wanted to tell someone else, unburden himself, but clearly he couldn't turn to his usual confidante. He glanced at Fidel. The quiet one of the team - diligent, hardworking and trustworthy. Could he unburden himself to this man?

He gave in; took the risk. "The thing is, I was just about to change my mind and tell Sally we should make another go of it, when I looked across the room…and saw something."

"What?"

"Sergeant Camille Borday." He looked up at her, sashaying in that pretty floral dress, very much off duty tonight.

Fidel swallowed, his eyes wide at this revelation. "So, er…you...?"

"Love Camille?" He smiled. "Yes, I think I very probably do. Don't know why it's taken me so long. I mean – look at her…" He gazed at the oblivious Camille in open admiration. "She's _wonderful_ ".

He felt absolutely, _utterly_ happy, but in a calm way. He wasn't going to rush anything. There was time enough to analyse how he felt, and in any case he had no idea whether Camille had got over Richard and, even if she had, he had no proof that she'd been interested in him. But it didn't matter. It was enough that he now understood his own heart. Despite Fidel's suggestion that he tell her, he knew, instinctively, that it was the wrong time to rock the boat. Right now, they _worked_. And he didn't want that to ever change – not even for the chance at a greater happiness.

Camille sat back down, breathless with exertion and laughter. Her sparkling eyes fell on Fidel and Humphrey. "Everything OK?"

"Yes, everything is _just_ as it should be," he stated with confidence, and then smiled and lifted his bottle to her - to everyone. "Cheers!"

As the chorus of 'cheers' and 'saluts' rang out around the table, Humphrey caught Fidel's eye again. The younger man gave him a reassuring nod.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Humphrey was lying in his hammock in the middle of a Sunday morning, a cold bottle of water balanced carefully on his stomach and thinking of nothing in particular.

The water was a concession to his leaden constitution. He'd drunk far too much over the last couple of nights and was paying for it now. Friday night had been Dwayne's birthday party and appeared to involve the imbibing of copious amounts of Catherine's famous punch. That would have been fine, if his appearance hadn't been mandatory at a shindig given by the Commissioner the following afternoon. The cocktails had been many as Humphrey had stood in the Residency's formal gardens, sweating in his dark suit and attempting to make polite small talk while completely out of his depth. He'd wondered, rather resentfully, whether Richard had ever been expected to turn up at these events. Afternoon had dragged on into evening, and _still_ he was forced to nod and smile at the silly twitters of the over-accessorised matrons and the gruff banter of their rich husbands. It was no wonder he had visited the drinks tray perhaps a little too often, just to get through it.

Now he was taking his ease, trying to recover, and half expecting Camille to turn up at some point.

The four senior officers at the station took it in turns to be officially on-duty during weekends, although, with the office and tiny jail manned by competent Special PCs, this generally only meant not leaving the island and not hitting the alcohol too heavily, so you were available at a moment's notice. If a serious crime was committed, the on-duty officer would assess the situation and then ring the others as necessary. In theory, Humphrey _could_ be called in to work at any time and for any case, but in reality, serious crime on sleepy little Sainte-Marie was not a significant problem. He and Camille usually made sure that at least one of them was on the island at all times, just in case.

Humphrey tended to spend part of his on-duty weekends writing up case-notes; the rest of the time, he worked on little DIY projects around the beach house. On those occasions, Camille kept well away – whether to avoid the inevitable carpentry disasters or because she was wary of getting dragged into a new case during her time off, he was unsure.

On _her_ on-duty weekends, she suddenly switched from relaxed to hyper-energetic, and would work off her energy either at her gym or with a long run. It had come as something as a shock for Humphrey to learn that Camille was a gym fiend, but in fact he could've guessed – no one kept a body as well-honed as hers without some serious exercise. She had occasionally tried to drag Humphrey into her fitness regime, but he hated the gym with a passion and much preferred walking or swimming…not that he put an awful lot of effort into _that_ either. It was just too hot to bother, most of the time.

So that left two weekends out of every four when neither of them was on duty, and usually Camille would visit him on one of the two days. Yesterday, she'd been to a friend's birthday party, the daughter of a billionaire, and it had been one of those swish events, held on a yacht with a band and lots of food and drink. If she wasn't too hung-over, he fully expected to engage in a mutual, lively and more than a little bitchy discussion on the rich and famous at play.

He shifted a little, and a piece of paper crinkled in the pocket of his shorts. It was a letter from Sally – their first communication in the three months since he had rejected her attempt at a reconciliation. It was a carefully-worded letter, simply updating him on what was happening in her life, sending her best wishes to him and his "colleague" and hoping that he might feel able to get in touch sometime, just to chat. He could tell by the stilted writing how much it had cost her to write it, and resolved to reply as soon as possible.  It was a little touching, the way she’d gone to the effort of writing a letter rather than an e-mail.

One phrase in it confused him. Although she didn't give a name, he suspected that "your colleague" in the singular could only refer to Camille, and he wondered why Sally had thought to mention her in particular. After all, she had also met Fidel and Dwayne. He was fairly sure he hadn't given himself away when they had talked in the bar and, in any case, Sally had probably been too absorbed by the bad news he was giving her to even notice. But she had always been sharp-eyed, and he couldn't help wondering whether, once she'd had a chance to reflect on what had happened, she'd noticed some kind of rapport between Humphrey and his sergeant.

He wished it would be appropriate to ask her, because he needed _someone_ to tell him what to do.

At first, he'd been overcome by the sheer _relief_ of being able to put a name to the growing feelings that he hadn't been able to interpret. Now, when he walked into the office, he could recognise that heart-thumping, stomach-churning sensation for what it truly was. Not nervousness about his job, his responsibilities to the team, his desire to prove himself to the Commissioner, as he had so blithely assumed. No – it was a symptom of something far more exciting…and far more dangerous.

In one sense, it was a relief to acknowledge his feelings to himself, but at the same time he felt even more confused and frustrated than before. Confused because… well, he knew that he had never, _ever_ , felt this way before – and what did that say about his marriage? Was he to assume that he had, in fact, _never_ been in love with his wife? Were these feelings for Camille the _real_ thing, or were they just the side-effect of a massive crush, one that wouldn't survive the rigours of a real relationship? He had to be _absolutely_ sure, because he couldn't mess this up again – and certainly not with a junior colleague. _If_ he attempted such a relationship and it went horribly wrong, they would never be able to recover their professional rapport.

Even if it _did_ work out, it certainly wasn't ideal to be dating your sergeant. He'd been scouring the regulations to consider his options. One possibility was to promote her to DI – and she was certainly worthy of the promotion – but then the Commissioner would probably decide that the station didn't need two senior officers and might either transfer her or send him back to London.

And it was a big 'if', because there was absolutely no indication that she would, or could, _ever_ feel the same way. And it was logical to assume not; after all, someone who harboured feelings for a man like Richard Poole would _never_ look at Humphrey Goodman in the same way.

It was frustrating that he couldn't work out what she was feeling. He knew she went on dates from time to time, usually organised by her mother, but occasionally it was a man she'd met in a bar or at the gym or at a party. So far, these had never progressed beyond one date, but that didn't mean that she wouldn't meet the right man one day.

It would almost be a relief to know for certain that Camille had met someone, because he certainly couldn't read her body language. Sometimes, he'd look up from his desk in the office and catch her looking at him in an oddly intense manner before turning her head away, quickly. Other times, she'd look embarrassed and refuse to catch his eye when answering Dwayne's enquiries regarding the success of the previous night's date. From what she said, no man was ever quite good enough – they were always too shallow or too full of themselves or too boring, or they had no sense of humour or fun. And then there were the times when she came over to his beach house and they sat on the beach together or went out on a small motorboat around the bay or attended one of the island's many fiestas, and her face would come alive, her eyes sparkling as she grinned at him.

So, every now and then, his hopes would rise… but then she didn't display what he thought of as the _usual_ signs of interest. She didn't give him a special smile, meant just for him, or look deeply into his eyes or deliberately step into his personal space, or display any other of the flirtatious behaviour that the websites he consulted seemed to imply that she should. On the occasions when he caught her looking at him, she didn't necessarily look all that happy. He didn't _think_ that she was still, even subconsciously, resenting his presence at Richard's former desk, so it must be something else that put that preoccupied little frown on her face.

He glanced at his watch; nearly half past eleven.  Usually, if she was going to show up on a Sunday, she’d be here by now. He tossed back the last of the water and began to shift his leaden limbs, preparatory to hauling himself out of the hammock. He could hear the rumble of an under-powered motorbike coming towards him, but didn't pay it any attention – his house was right at the end of a dusty road full of cheap holiday rentals, so he was used to backpackers roaring up to take in the view.

He began to shift his way gingerly off the hammock. It was easy enough to get in to the blasted thing, but his body would gradually sink downwards into a more supine position. He'd discovered from painful experience that getting out without tipping the whole thing up and getting a mouthful of sand was quite the trick.

"Good morning, Humphrey!"

"Wha -?"

He twisted in the direction of the voice while levering his left leg out; the momentum caused the hammock to swing wildly before twisting over, dumping him unceremoniously in the sand. With his right leg and both arms wrapped up in the material, he was unable to save himself and landed face down.

"Mmmph…!" He lifted his head, brushing sand off his face and spitting out a good mouthful of it, before turning towards a very familiar pair of feet. He groaned. _Every single time_ ….

Camille lifted the hammock and peered under it, blinking at him. "Are you OK? That was quite a tumble."

"Um – yes, I think so." He straightened his limbs and did the usual spot-check. "No – nothing broken. All present and accounted for."

She hummed her approval and pulled the hammock right back, so he could scramble to his feet. There was an amused glint in her eye that made him prickle with heat as he got up. He gave her a careless smile to mask his embarrassment. "So… you look… er, different?"

She was wearing denim cut-offs with scruffy old trainers and a bright yellow t-shirt that looked too big on her. Her hair was scraped back in a practical ponytail and she wasn't wearing any make-up. He didn't think he'd ever seen her looking quite so boyish; even off-duty, Camille managed to combine elegance with practicality.

She raised an interrogative eyebrow and he hurried to reassure: " _Nice_ different, I mean, not… That colour. Um. It suits you."

He grimaced. Since the revelation of his feelings, he'd become more tongue-tied than ever, when it came to Camille. Even the greenest plod on the force would've noticed by now that he admired his sergeant for more than her policing skills. He was amazed that she'd never called him out on it. Presumably, she was too polite and didn't like to hurt his feelings.

She smiled, not seeming offended. " _Thank_ you…I _think_. There is a reason. I have spent all of the morning working on… this!"

She turned and gestured, with a flourish, at the dusty-looking motorbike propped up on its stand on the road. It looked about forty years' old.

"Oh, so that was _you_?" He walked across the beach towards it. "I didn't think you liked them?"

"Correction. I don't like going in the side car when Dwayne is driving, but I don't mind motorbikes in general." She looked at it, her brow creasing a little. "At least, I don't _think_ I mind them… I won it. At a poker game."

"At a _what_?" His mind gave him an unhelpful image of Camille playing strip poker, and he tried to hide his confusion with a cough.

"Oh, come on, Humphrey!" She grinned at him. "You must have known that I played.  _Proper_ poker, not any other kind. Didn't you know?"

"I didn't know, but now you tell me, I'm not surprised." He stared at the bike. "So when…?"

"Last night." She glanced at his face, seeming to read the question in it. "Oh - yes, I _did_ go to Marcelle's party, but it was _dreary_. Just a bunch of overpaid, over-dressed idiots, strutting about the boat, asking each other how much money they earned last year and how they were planning to invest it." She shuddered, a little theatrically. "And so, when the boat came out to replace the daytime serving staff, I begged a lift off them back to the harbour. One of the waiters – Sam - talked me into going to a barbecue they were having on the beach." She grinned, reminiscently. "Now _that_ was a _party_."

He tried to ignore his instinctive jealousy. There was no reason for it; this was Camille's home town and she knew any number of people. There was no reason to suppose that anything had happened beyond some dancing and a few drinks…and even if it _had_ , he had no right to judge her. She was younger than him and could spend her spare time with whomever she chose. Even if he _was_ a young, fun-loving and probably very good-looking waiter.

He gestured towards the bike to hide his feelings. "And there was poker at this party?"

"Yes – well not _there_ , but later on. To cut a _very_ long story short, Sam got a little too…hands-on for my liking." She shook her head at his expression. "Nothing I couldn't handle. He was not serious, just a little drunk. Anyway, I decided it was time to cut my losses and walk into town… and on the way, I met up with old Charles. He's a friend of Maman. He talked me into going to a poker game." She giggled. "I think he thought I was easy game. Ended up having to give me his bike."

" _Camille_. Are you telling me you took some poor old man's only form of transport?"

She gave an eloquent little half-shrug that looked particularly French. "As if I would! He deals in them. He's been trying to get me to buy one for years."

"And…and you can ride it?" He looked at her so doubtfully that she laughed, clearly incredulous.

"Of _course_ I can! I was an undercover investigator once – remember? Can _you_ ride?"

"Well…" He didn't like to admit that this was just another thing that he was fundamentally bad at. His balance was atrocious at the best of times. He'd taken only thirty minutes of instruction at police school before it became blatantly obvious to both him and the instructor that Humphrey was never going to make a patrol officer.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, anyway." She opened the box at the back and pulled out a spare helmet. "You can ride behind me and follow my instructions."

"What! Camille, I don't think that's a very good idea…" He was backing away, both literally and figuratively.

"Why not?" She frowned, appearing to notice him properly for the first time. "Are you feeling alright? You look as if _you_ went to a good party last night, or something."

"Or something," he replied distractedly. "I just – I don't have great coordination, that's all."

She shoved the lurid lime-green helmet into his hands. "You worry _far_ too much. I will steer, you just need to hold on and lean when I tell you to. Don't get your lefts and rights mixed up and we'll be _fine_."

"Chance will be a fine thing," he muttered, as he fumbled with the helmet. "Shouldn't I change into jeans or something? Aren't you supposed to cover up your arms and legs to prevent injury?"

She gave him her patented Camille Look before putting on her own helmet. "In _this_ heat?"

* * *

 

After the initial shock of the unpredictable motion, Humphrey realised, much to his surprise, that he was enjoying himself. There was a major difference between trying to learn how to ride a motorbike and just riding pillion with someone else doing all the work.

Camille was true to her word – she was an excellent rider, avoiding the potholes with practised ease and cutting efficiently through the downtown Sunday morning traffic before heading up into the hills. After about half an hour of meandering around the little villages, she pulled over at a viewpoint and pushed up her visor to give him a grin.

"It's all coming back to me! Why did I ever give this up? Are you enjoying the ride?"

He nodded, enthusiastically. It was more fun than he could ever have imagined, zipping up and down the mountain roads, the cooler winds up here whipping through his flimsy t-shirt and shorts.

"Ready for a little _more_ fun?" Her smile turned a little wicked and her eyes glittered in a way that made his stomach swoop. It shouldn't have sounded as seductive or downright dirty as it did.

Before he could really respond, she flipped down her visor again, gunned up the old bike and they were off again, faster than before. Unprepared for the sudden move, his hands couldn't find the rear handle that he had been holding on to and he panicked and grabbed at her waist.

"Oh – I'm sorry –," he shouted into her ear as he fumbled awkwardly. It seemed a little intimate to put his arms around her, but equally he didn't dare to let go – certainly not at this speed. She didn't seem that bothered, though; as they turned into a straight section, she slowed down a little, taking one hand off the handlebar to grab his hands and place them where she wanted them. Right around her waist.

He found himself leaning in, instinctively, as she gunned the accelerator again. They were turning into a more forested section, and the track was rougher. She slowed down only slightly and rode out the bumps and ruts with professional ease. He sensed that, in her mind, she was somewhere back in her undercover days, hot on the trail of a suspect, with the adrenaline of the chase thrumming through her.

He felt the excitement running through his own veins. He'd led a relatively quiet life when he wasn't on the job – and even then, he'd rarely been involved in high-speed chases. Even during his own stints of international investigation, the bulk of the work had consisted of interviewing suspects and going through reams of evidence. Hardly high-energy work, but then Humphrey had always been more cerebral than physical. And in his home life, he'd shied away from high-impact activities, fearing that he might hurt himself even more than usual.

As the bike went over a particularly sharp rut, he felt his body lift off the bike and then slam down again. The momentum had pushed him even further forward. Up to now, he'd managed to maintain a reasonably decorous distance between them, but now he found that his entire body was pressed up against Camille's, his thighs pressed against her hips and his groin pushed into the curve of her backside.

The roughness of the ride meant that his lower body kept rocking into her buttocks. His upper body seemed glued to her back. His hands were linked firmly around her waist, but occasionally they slid upwards due to the motion, moving tantalisingly close to the under-side of her breasts. He swallowed as he peered over her shoulder at the track ahead. It was becoming more and more clear that the close proximity was making a certain part of his anatomy react in a highly inappropriate manner. He attempted to shift his hips backwards, but it seemed impossible to move.

Humphrey could say with absolute honesty that he had _never_ had this problem before. It wasn't that Camille hadn't had this effect on him in the past, but the reaction had usually been fleeting and he had put it down to a natural male reaction to an attractive, scantily-clad woman. Since he had acknowledged that his feelings for her were more than platonic, the unwarranted reactions had become more frequent, but he'd always been in a position to hide them.

Not this time. He closed his eyes briefly, but it didn't help matters – being unable to see only focused his senses more strongly on the sensuality of being repeatedly pushed against a warm, soft, curvy body. He groaned quietly as he felt himself beginning to harden. Any minute now, she would feel what was happening…and _that_ didn't bear thinking about.

The track was getting even rougher and she slowed down a little more to compensate. His hands slipped from her waist and he clutched tightly at her hips as he braced his thighs and made one desperate attempt to push his lower body away. One of his feet slipped on the footstep and his leg shot forward, making his body veer to the right.

"What the -?"

Camille slammed on the brakes and tried to compensate for the momentum…but it was too late. The bike swerved to the left, violently, and began to slide on the damp foilage at the side of the track. Again, she tried to correct the movement by turning into the skid, which might have worked if it hadn't been for the pothole straight ahead. The front of the bike pitched forward, coming to an abrupt halt and sending its passengers flying through the air.

As Humphrey was propelled through the air, he had just the briefest of moments to recognise that _this_ was not going to be good… and then he hit the ground.

 


	8. Chapter 8

It could have been very much worse, Humphrey reflected, as he lay face-down on a bank of suspiciously damp moss. After all, he could have been thrown onto the rough gravel track rather than – mainly - onto a springy bank of foliage.

He lay still, stunned by the impact. The moss felt unpleasantly wet on his face and he could feel the dampness seeping through his clothes, but right now, it seemed a good place to be. There was a sensation of something else trickling down his right calf, and he had the distinct impression that it wasn't water. He felt oddly numb, even displaced from his body. Dimly, he wondered if he was going into shock.

"Ow! _Merde_!"

He was abruptly dragged back to the present. Grunting, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. A sharp pain radiated from his right knee, but he ignored it. " _Camille_! God, are you OK?"

His helmet was impeding his vision; staggering to his feet, he pulled it over his head, dropping it on the ground. "Cam – ow!"

He'd turned into the direction of the prone bike, taking a half-step forward with his right leg, and felt another stab of pain. Looking down, he could see a substantial gash running down the outside of his leg. The blood was soaking into his flimsy canvas shoe.

He took a stock check of himself and couple more experimental steps forward, but it didn't seem as if he'd actually broken anything. Apart from the one nasty cut, he'd scraped the skin off his elbows and palms and he felt generally bruised and battered, but it looked as if the soft landing had saved him from anything worse. The cut looked more alarming than it actually was. He'd also twisted his right knee, but was still able to put his weight on it.

"What the _hell_ were you doing?"

He looked towards the direction of the voice. Camille had fallen further into the mossy verge – in fact, it would be truer to say that she hadn't actually fallen on moss at all. As he watched, she extricated herself from a leaf-filled ditch with some difficulty and staggered, with a squelching sound, back onto the track, clutching her helmet in her hand.

Humphrey looked at her and, despite the severity of the situation, had to bite his lip not to smirk. It was fortunate that the ditch had been piled up with fallen reeds, but here and there, her clothes, arms and legs were spattered with mud. Her hair was standing on end, and there was a shaggy bit of moss sticking out of it. A clump of dirt stuck to her cheek and she rubbed it away irritably.

He hoped he had hidden his reaction, but she knew him too well. Her eyes narrowed.

"This is _not_ funny, Humphrey! It's _your_ fault that we came off – if you hadn't started wriggling around like that…"

He began to feel a little irritated now that it was clear that she wasn't badly injured. His elbows and hands were stinging and, now that the initial shock had worn off, a dull throb had taken up residence in his knee. "Well, I _did_ tell you it was a bad idea. You know what I'm like with my balance -."

"You were doing fine until now! _Idiot_!" she spat as she pushed past him. He could tell by the way she winced as she walked that she probably had her own share of bumps and scratches under the mud, but she didn't look too badly hurt.

He sighed, watching as she lifted the stricken bike. "Is it OK?"

"Does it _look_ OK?"

At first glance, it didn't look much worse than it had before, but as he limped closer, he could see that the front wheel was bent out of shape. She hauled it off the track and propped it up against a bush.

"OK…" He looked up and down the track, empty and silent in both directions. "So…where are we?"

"Near the west coast," she replied, absently, as she fumbled in her shorts pocket for her mobile. He remembered, belatedly, that his own was back at the bungalow…along with pretty much anything he owned that could be remotely useful in this situation. Like his money. And his sticking plasters.

She glanced down at his leg as she activated her phone. "I'll call Fidel and get him to send out the truck – _merde_!"

It was the second time she had sworn, which was unusual for her, and he gave her an alarmed look. "What is it?"

"No reception." She shook the phone, as if it might make a difference and then glared at it in an accusing manner. It was a small, slim model and she kept it in a tough case designed to protect it during accidents. It hadn't ever let her down before, and she continued to stare at it in something like disbelief.

"I thought your network covered the entire island?" He knew that his own network could be flaky, but normally hers was reliable, as they were police-issued phones. "What if we were at a crime scene out here?"

" _Usually_ , I would have access to the car radio," she pointed out through gritted teeth and stuffed her phone back in her pocket.

"Wait! We need that – we can use your maps app to work out where the nearest village is."

She gave him one of her Looks. "What part of 'no reception' did you not understand? And, in any case, I know _perfectly well_ where the nearest village is. About 5K in _that_ direction." She pointed a thumb over her shoulder and then glanced meaningfully at his leg again. "Hope you've got your walking shoes on."

He groaned.

* * *

 

The midday sun beat down on his uncovered head as he limped along the road. He'd tried walking on the bank for a bit, as it was in shade, but the going was rougher there and kept jarring his knee, which was starting to swell. His head was aching and his mouth felt dry; he would have given anything for a nice cold bottle of water. It was no distance to travel, really, only a few miles, but it felt much longer with a sore leg and a raging thirst.

Camille walked slightly ahead of him, not exactly striding but still walking steadily, as if she was pacing herself. She had a few scrapes on her bare arms and legs, and a slightly more significant cut on her shoulder, but they didn't seem to be bothering her. He supposed that, in her past life as an undercover officer, she'd received her fair share of minor injuries and was used to pushing through any pain.

Occasionally, she glanced over her shoulder and adjusted her pace slightly if he was falling behind, but beyond that, she didn't pay him much attention. He could tell by the stiff set of her shoulders that she was still annoyed with him.

He was pretty annoyed with himself too. It had been a bloody stupid way to react in the circumstances – panicking like a teenage boy. Even if she _had_ noticed what was happening, he could've laughed it off; made a joke out of it. A woman as sophisticated as Camille wouldn't have been all that shocked…probably.

But, what if she _had_ been shocked? Couldn't it have been construed as sexual harassment of a junior officer? Somehow, he didn't think _she'd_ see it that way – after all, with her skimpy outfits and tendency to stand a little close, he could almost make a charge of sexual harassment himself. But Humphrey had seen more than one Met officer's career go south in similar circumstances, and he felt ashamed of himself. He had a _responsibility_ to maintain certain standards of professionalism. It was one thing to be friendly with your team, but it was important not to let that cordiality tip over into unwarranted intimacy.

Richard had had the same problem, of course. In his diary, he'd referred to it between the carefully constructed lines – the difficulty of balancing professional responsibilities with the need to promote friendship within a small team. There were occasions when he'd judged it inappropriate to join his team for a drink. He would try to leave before a party grew too raucous – he had known that he had a reputation as a party-pooper, but there were usually reasons, and they were to do with a desire not to see his colleagues doing anything that he might have to reprimand them for later.

Richard had often had to make decisions about when he should and should not turn a blind eye to Dwayne's little 'deals'. He'd also tried to be crisply professional with Fidel, whose tendency to idolise him had to be ruthlessly quashed, for the young officer's sake. And as for Camille…well, he'd hinted more than once at a struggle to stand by the fraternisation rules.

And now, Humphrey was angry with himself. Angry for falling into the trap of getting too close to Camille. Angry that he'd told Fidel about his feelings for her – it was hardly fair to expect a junior officer to keep such an intimate secret. Angry for forgetting that he was a DI, for heaven's sake! He was here at the whim of the Commissioner; at any time, Patterson could decide that his services were no longer required. The enigmatic man _seemed_ pleased with Humphrey's work, but if there was any hint of trouble in the team…

As he had been walking along, sunk in his own misery, his pace had slowed down until, eventually, he was hardly able to put one foot in front of another. He stumbled over a stone and hissed through his teeth as a sharp pain ran up his thigh. He stopped for a moment and rubbed his neck, trying to ease the pounding in his head.

Camille turned at the muffled sound and sighed impatiently, but she walked back and offered him her arm.

" _Well_?" she demanded as he hesitated. "You can't stay here all day. You need to get that cut cleaned, and we _both_ need some fluid. Believe me, you do _not_ want to collapse out here in the middle of the day."

He gave in and let her put a firm arm around his waist to take some of the strain. By putting his arm around her shoulder and leaning some of his weight on her, he was able to hobble on. Although the speed was painful, they were able to make some progress.

"What I don't get -," he gasped. "- is why we can't just wait for someone to come along and wave them down."

"Because you'd be waiting a long time," she commented. "We're not exactly on the beaten track here. There used to be a coffee plantation that way – which is why there's a track – but it closed down about fifteen years' ago, and there is nothing else until you reach the coast. There are no beaches on this side of Sainte-Marie, just high cliffs and rocky coves that you can't access - and you wouldn't want to anyway. There are plenty of shipwrecks off this part of the coast. There is one small natural harbour – I think they used to use it to transport coffee beans to Guadeloupe – but there's nothing there now. It's not the best route, the currents and hidden rocks make it far too dangerous." She paused, reflectively. "Since the plantation closed down, hardly anyone ever comes this way. _Especially_ on a Sunday; they're very traditional around here and don't leave the house except to go to church."

"So, why did you bring us this way?"

She shrugged, with some difficulty under his weight. "I used to ride out here on my scooter when I was a kid. I enjoyed being alone for a few hours. And the views are just magic. On this side, you look out over the sea and you cannot see any land at all. Just blue, as far as the eyes can see…" Her voice faded away, dreamily.

"And you… you brought me here… to see them?" he asked, hesitantly.

"What makes you think that?" Her voice was sharp. "Maybe _I_ wanted to see them! Maybe I should have come here by myself. I would probably have been on my way back by now, if I had."

He was stung by the implication that he was a burden, and attempted to pull away from her. "Why didn't you just leave me by the bike while you went to get help? You're much fitter than me."

She was silent for a moment; then: "I _did_ think about it, but it didn't seem like the best idea. The village I am heading for is not really even _that_ , it's no more than a hamlet – a few houses. And the people are poor. I could not guarantee that I would be able to find transport to pick you up. And that cut needs medical attention sooner rather than later."

"I see." He paused, and then added, awkwardly. "I really _am_ sorry, you know."

She sighed, sounding a little warmer than before. "Yes. I know you are. And so am I. I shouldn't have -."

She broke off and he asked, curiously: "Shouldn't have _what_?"

"Never mind." She took a deep breath and hauled him forward. "Let's just concentrate on getting there."

* * *

 

The hamlet, when they eventually staggered into it, didn't look all that promising. However, the residents were friendly enough, if a little confused by the sudden appearance of a shabby, large white man being helped along by a scantily clad woman. Humphrey was ushered towards a shady doorway, but when he refused to enter the small house, afraid of leaving bloody footprints, a chair was brought to the doorway for him to sit on. His hostess bustled off to fetch a bottle of water for him.

Humphrey looked around, curiously. There were about dozen dilapidated houses, clustered around a small square, with an old-fashioned well in the middle that didn't look as if it were still in use. He couldn't see any shops or other signs of industry. There were a couple of old trucks pulled up in the square, one of them fully loaded and covered in tarpaulin, and even a dusty bus. He presumed that the locals must travel somewhere else for work – always assuming they _had_ work to travel to. Despite the air of poverty, the wooden hours were painted in bright colours and there were flowers growing in pots around each doorway. It wasn't an entirely unattractive little place.

Camille had moved away from him, walking up a slight slope to get a better signal on her phone. As she passed the well, a couple of young men sitting on the edge of it watched her curiously but with no sign of hostility. Humphrey felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. They seemed harmless enough, but there was _something_ about them that made his well-honed police senses tingle. He fancied that Camille's steps had faltered slightly as she glanced towards them, and wondered whether she had the same bad feeling.

As he watched them, another man, a little older, emerged from the opposite house and called something out to them in Creole. He glanced towards Humphrey as he did so, and Humphrey felt a jolt of recognition go through him. He'd seen this man recently, but he couldn't recall exactly _where_.

The feeling was clearly mutual, as the man stared back at him, his face expressionless. After a few seconds, he disappeared back inside his house.

Humphrey was distracted by the woman, who came out of the house, talking to him in French. Since he'd been in Sainte-Marie, he'd learned some of the language – it helped to speak it, if you wanted to get by. The island was a British Overseas Territory and English was the official language, but thanks to its chequered Colonial history, around 40 per cent of the population was French-speaking. This woman spoke quickly with a heavy accent and, he suspected, a fair smattering of the local variety of French Creole. He couldn't make out much of what she was saying to him, but the rhythm of her speech was oddly soothing.

She held a bottle of opaque liquid and he expected her to hand it to him, but instead she unscrewed it. A strong smell of alcohol assaulted his nostrils.

"Oh, well, thanks but I'm not sure that's a good idea. Water might be – Aaaagh!"

He yelled in agony as she poured the stinging contents liberally over his cut.

"Oh, don't make a fuss." Camille had returned from making her call. She gave his leg a dismissive glance. "She's probably warded off a bad infection. That's rubbing alcohol – it's antiseptic."

"It bloody hurts!" He attempted to look grateful – no mean feat when his leg felt as if it were splitting open. The woman tutted over his knee and slapped his arm, none too gently. She said something to Camille, too swift for him to follow, before disappearing back into her house.

Camille translated for Humphrey. "She says you've probably sprained that. She's telling you off for walking on it, as you have probably made it worse."

 _No shit_ , he felt like saying. "So…any luck getting through?"

"Yes." She sounded annoyed. "Gina is the only one in the office. She says Fidel went out on a case a couple of hours ago, with Dwayne. Apparently, he tried to contact us and then he went to the beach house, thinking you'd left your mobile off." She waved her mobile at him. "There are a couple of messages from him on here, telling me to contact him as soon as possible. I tried to phone, but there's no reply."

"So, we're stuck here? I take it he took the truck?"

"Looks like it." She frowned. "I wonder what the case is? He sounded worried…"

The woman had come back out of the house again, holding two steaming cups of black coffee for her visitors. Humphrey couldn't think of anything worse than a hot drink at that moment, but he took a sip and found, to his surprise, that the heavily sugared drink was refreshing.

Camille took a sip, made a face at the sweetness, and turned back to the woman, speaking swiftly in the local lingo. The woman seemed to consider for a moment, and then gestured sharply at the two boys sitting by the well.

They sauntered over slowly, both of them quite clearly giving Camille the eye, which she studiously ignored. The woman and Camille talked together, apparently discussing their options.

Humphrey leaned back in his chair, feeling oddly out of things. He gulped back the scalding liquid, feeling his head clear a little. The burning pain in his cut had dulled back to a heavy throb. His knee was distended and he doubted that he'd be able to walk much further.

He let out a long breath and stared up into the sky. It was growing overcast, as so often happened in the early afternoon on Sainte-Marie; the heat and humidity would rise inexorably throughout the day, to be followed by thundery showers. With his filthy t-shirt clinging to his body, he couldn't help thinking that it might be a relief to be soaked by cool, refreshing rain.

He leaned his head against the door frame and watched dully as the man from the house opposite came out again and walked over to them. Again, he had the distinct impression that he had seen the man before, and he tried to collect his scrambled thoughts together, but with the heat and the pain in his leg, it just seemed too hard to even _think_.

Camille turned back towards him, looking relieved. "These men are going into Gourbeyre. That's a town; we should be able to get a taxi back to Honore from there." She jerked her head towards the truck with the tarpaulin. "We'll have to travel on boards over the back, so it won't be comfortable, but it's probably better than waiting here. The woman says you need a doctor to look at that knee.

He hadn't noticed that the woman had disappeared into the house. Camille took another minute sip of the drink and then took the opportunity to pour the remains discretely in a flower pot just before their hostess reappeared. This time, she had a bowl of steaming water and a towel, which Camille used to wash the dirt off her face and arms, and a large bandage.

"She won't clean it any further," Camille explained, as the woman swathed Humphrey's leg from knee to ankle in the bandage before hurrying away to speak to the man Humphrey recognised. "She is concerned that she might wash the alcohol away."

After exchanging a few muttered words with the woman, the man nodded and sauntered over the loaded truck, beckoning to the two younger men. As he did, his eyes swung over to Humphrey and once again he had the strongest impression he'd seen the man recently…in an _entirely_ different context. _Where was it_? And _when_?

Camille was talking to the woman again, with a smooth fluency that he envied and admired in equal measure. He noticed that she had managed to tidy her hair and generally restore her usual glamourous appearance despite the limited facilities available to her. In that, she was not unlike Sally; he presumed it was a female talent.

Certainly not a skill _he_ had, he reflected as he pushed himself to his feet, hissing at the pain in his knee. His vision swam and he clutched at the door frame to anchor himself.

"Are you alright to move?" Camille's voice was surprisingly soft as she looked a little dubiously at his leg. "I'd suggest you stay here while I fetch help, but - ."

"No – no, I'm good to go." He gritted his teeth and hobbled over to the truck. He still had a sense that something wasn't quite right and didn't really fancy splitting up. Judging by the fleeting look of relief on her face, it was clear that she had the same concerns. He noticed that the man he vaguely recognised and one of the youths had got into the driving cabin.

The other younger man had pulled aside the tarpaulin at the back of the truck and was patiently waiting for them to get on board. Peering into the dark interior over Camille's shoulder, Humphrey could make out a number of crates lining the floor of the truck. There were some wooden boards slatted into grooves halfway up the side of the truck, and he guessed that other crates would normally be stacked on top of this, to maximise the amount carried without damaging the lower crates. It appeared that this was where he and Camille would have to sit.

"They're flowers," Camille told him, quietly. "The boys are her sons and they work for a company that exports flowers to other parts of the Caribbean."

Humphrey frowned. "I should've thought there was any number of tropical flowers all across the Caribbean.  Why would someone pay for an exported bunch?" Something was nudging insistently at his dulled senses.

"It's an orchid native to Sainte-Marie," Camille explained, but there was something a little odd in her tone that made him suspect she also had her doubts about the set up. "They have to get them down to Gourbeyre – there's a facility there where they can be stored properly before being driven the airport. The crates and tarpaulin only keep them cool for so long." She peered at the sealed crates intently, as if she could see inside. "They're beautiful – and very popular in the exclusive hotels on Guadeloupe and St Kitts."

She slid herself onto the boards – sitting on one side and sliding her legs up onto the other – and then shuffled sideways into the gloom of the truck beneath the tarpaulin. As always, she made it look easy, and he tried to emulate her to the best of his ability, wincing as he moved his leg. He still felt oddly disorientated and more than a little nauseous. He supposed it must be delayed shock from the accident. He was glad he would be riding at the back of the truck – at least he could lean over the edge if his breakfast showed any signs of reappearing.

As soon as he was settled, the youth gave him a wide grin and pulled the back flap down, considerately leaving it loose. The interior was dim and stuffy and unpleasantly close in the tropical heat.  Camille was hugging her knees and peering at the crates beneath the boards, her posture tense.

The truck roared into action and began move slowly along the rutted track. Humphrey soon found he was fully occupied with clinging to the edge of the truck to stop being thrown about too much.  The one benefit to this was that it took his mind off his queasiness. It was shady but unpleasantly humid beneath the tarpaulin, and sweat ran freely down his back, soaking his filthy t-shirt. His throat felt parched; his mouth unpleasantly dry despite the coffee he'd drunk.

"There was something a bit odd, back there," Camille commented, raising her voice to be heard above the engine. "That woman was very keen to get rid of us."

"Mmm?" He ran a tongue over his cracked lips and tried to gather his scattered thoughts. He felt as if his head were full of mud. "Didn't she just want me to get to hospital as quickly as possible?"

Camille hesitated for a moment. "It was more than that. I overheard her talking to the driver while I was washing – she didn't think I was paying attention. She told him to get us away from here as quickly as possible. And, why are they transporting flowers today? It's a Sunday – round here, _nowhere_ is open on a Sunday."

"Well, presumably the flowers were already picked and needed to be moved quickly?"

She sighed. "I don't know. It just feels… _weird_."

"I know what you mean." He rubbed his head; it was starting to pound in rhythm with his pulse. "I wonder where they picked them? Where do these orchids grow? Not wild, surely?"

"No – well, yes, they do, but they're also farmed." Why did her voice sound so far away, suddenly? "Apart from controlled growing, you see them in private gardens, the Botanic Gardens in Honore…and I think the Commissioner has some in the Residency grounds…"

"That's _it_ ," he dimly heard a voice close to him saying. "That's where I saw him…"

"Humphrey…are you alright?" There was a hand on his arm, but at that moment, the truck lurched violently as it took a sharp turn to the right. His head span and he felt perspiration prickle his forehead. He realised suddenly that he was about to pass out.

The hand on his arm moved as Camille leaned across him. Light flickered at the corner of his vision as she lifted the flap. "That's odd – this isn't the way to Gourbeyre…"

"Camille…" He focused on his voice and tried to enunciate clearly. "This isn't just the accident… I think… I think I've been drugged…"

Her face was a blur, and he felt fingers gripping his chin and lifting it up. "It must have been the _coffee_ ," she breathed, close to his ear. "Humphrey, listen…"

He felt her hands move to grip his arms just as the darkness overcame him and he fell backwards into oblivion.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_Thump…thump…thump…_

There was the sound of muffled drumming, somewhere far away in the darkness.

It seemed to be coming nearer, becoming more distinct, but he couldn't see anything.  After a few minutes (or was it hours?), he realised that this was because his eyes were shut.

He was afraid to open them; afraid of what he would see, afraid of leaving this cocoon of darkness that felt strangely safe to him. He knew instinctively that the world outside his own head was a dangerous place right now and he was fearful of the pain and disorientation that awaited him. And so he kept his eyes tightly shut.

Time passed, and the drumming faded before coming back, stronger than before. He may have dozed, but suddenly he was more aware.

Aware enough to know that he was lying on his side on a hard, unpleasantly damp floor, with one of his arms positioned awkwardly beneath him, and that his leg hurt like hell. In fact, the hot beating pulse that was drumming through his body might be originating from that one bright hard source of agony… Or was it from his head?

He risked opening one gummy eyelid and then the other. The darkness receded to some degree, but he felt a stab of pain right behind his eyes that made him hiss and close them again, quickly.

Dimly, he was aware of someone calling his name, over and over. Gradually, the voice overpowered the sullen thumping. Recognising it, he opened his eyes again.

The light was dim and he could make out very little of his surroundings. He was lying on his side with his face very close to a gritty rough surface and his limbs splayed haphazardly. He realised after a moment that he was lying in an approximation of the recovery position…which was good news, in a way. It meant that _somebody_ didn't want him to choke or drown in his own vomit. Even if they weren't that concerned about drugging him.

" _Humphrey_! Can you hear me?"

He opened his mouth, trying to respond. "Ysmgll…"

Well, _that_ didn't sound right. He swallowed and tried again, finding that he could only produce a croak. His mouth was abominably dry and there was a foul taste on his tongue.

Cautiously, he tried to stretch his legs out. The pulsing pain in his leg spiked agonisingly, but he was relieved to find that he could still move it. The arm under his body was numb and immobile, but he somehow managed to push himself into a sitting position.

He rubbed his dead arm while taking in his surroundings. Sunlight came dimly through cracks in the roof, and with these rays, he was able to make out that he was in a hut roughly twenty feet by eight. The walls and ceiling looked to be rough wooden slats, and he was sitting on a filthy, damp concrete floor, which had puddles in various locations. Apart from some stacked crates in one corner, the hut was empty. He could hear the sound of waves crashing onto the sand fairly close by and smelt the unmistakable tang of salt, mixed in with the musty atmosphere of the hut.

He hardly dared to look at his right leg, but it appeared to be still swathed in the loose bandage. It felt swollen, tight, hot…little pulses of agony throbbing in time with his heart. So much for that alcohol staving off infection…

" _Humphrey_!"

He located the sound, turning awkwardly to look over his shoulder. "C'm'lle?"

She was propped up against the wall right behind him, with her ankles tied together and her arms twisted behind her, also presumably tied together. She was hunched up a little, with her hair hanging over her face. Even in his dazed state, she looked to be in pain.

He tried to croak another enquiry but coughed instead. He licked his lips; they felt cracked and gritty, and he grimaced in disgust, spitting bile from his mouth. He looked around, hopefully.

She seemed to guess his thoughts. "They left a bottle of water, but get me out of this first."

Somehow, hearing her voice seemed to clear his foggy brain. "Yes, of course."

Not trusting his ability to stand, he shuffled awkwardly on his bottom in her direction and examined the rope binding her ankles. It was thick, with large knots that were not that difficult to undo – or wouldn't have been if only his left hand wasn't still numb. Having finally released her legs, he moved around to tackle her wrists.

She sighed in relief when he finished, hunching up further to rub her wrists and ankles. "Bottle over there. The youngest one dropped it on the floor after the others left. Muttered something about how you might need it."

He shuffled across the floor again and grabbed the bottle of water. It looked OK; the lid was sealed. He opened it and sipped cautiously. The water was unpleasantly warm but didn't taste as if it had been doctored. He took several large gulps, washing out his mouth in the process, and his head cleared a little.

"Hey! I could use some of that too," she protested.

"Sorry." He passed the bottle over. She had raised her head slightly, pushing her hair back, and he gasped at her swollen jaw and the bruises already darkening her face.

" _Camille_! God, what did they _do_ to you?"

She gulped the water down and then grimaced, touching a cut on her lip. "Oh, they just didn't like me 'resisting arrest'."

"You _fought_ them? All three of them?"

She stopped dabbing at her lip and glared at him. "Of _course_ I did! I didn't know what they were planning to do! For all I knew, they were going to drop us overboard, and you were – well, completely out of it. When they started dragging us to the boat…"

" _Boat_? Where are we now? On a beach?"

"Yes, in some kind of hut, which explains why it's so damp in here. We're at that bay I told you about – with the unused jetty. Near the abandoned coffee plantation." She prodded her jaw warily. "That older man punched me and I think I blacked out for a moment. And then he put a sack over my head. But at least they didn't take us with them on the boat. I think they had considered it. Instead they dragged us in here and tied me up. At least he took the sack off before they left – although I think it was mainly to smirk at me. And then they left, and I heard the sound of a motorboat. I'm pretty sure they've gone, so we can rest for a few minutes before trying to get out."

" _Bastard_ ," he spat out, surprising himself with the level of vitriol in his voice. Ridiculously old-fashioned though it might be, his blood was up at the thought of a man hitting a woman, even if she _was_ a police officer…

"It probably did not help that I'd just stuck my knee right in his – _you_ know," she commented.

He looked up at her in surprise. There was just the suspicion of a smile lurking in the corners of her mouth, as she delicately stretched out her fingers, examining the split and bruised knuckles that spoke of a good fight.

He choked out a laugh. Ridiculously grateful that she could still find humour in the direst of situations. "You – oh, Camille, you… You. Are. _Brilliant_! I lo -." Somehow he managed to cut off the words, substituting rather weakly with, "I – uh – I hope you know that."

To avoid meeting her eyes, he tried to rub his neck before remembering that the arm was still a little leaden.

"The youngest man – the one who left the water," she said, watching his stiff motion. "He was the one who put you in the recovery position. He was the only one that seemed to care, but he was too scared to stand up to the others. I felt…" she swallowed. "I had the impression that he was sorry about something."

"I should think he _was_ ," he said, indignantly. "When I get my hands on them…"

He left off rubbing his shoulder to touch her cheek very gently, careful not to make contact with the swollen jaw. She observed him carefully, silently, and then her eyelids fluttered shut. Was it his imagination or did she lean very slightly into the light pressure of his fingertips, just for a fraction of a second, before moving her face away again?

"No, it was _more_ than that. He seemed almost remorseful…oh, _I_ don't know." She sighed, shaking her head. When she spoke again, her voice was harder, more practical.

"You said you knew that older man from somewhere."

He rubbed his face, feeling utterly wretched. The muzziness was starting to fade, leaving him with a nasty headache. After-effects of the drug, he supposed. That woman had seemed so _kind_ …

"I did. I just didn't remember until you mentioned it. He was at the Residency. I was there… yesterday? How long was I out?" he asked, suddenly.

"Over three hours, I think. It felt like a long time, anyway. I was getting a bit worried…although you snored, so I knew that you were at least breathing. I wonder what they gave you?"

He felt his head gingerly. "Whatever it was, it certainly packed a punch."

"And I was supposed to have taken it too. That was why she put it in the coffee and added so much sugar to disguise the taste." She shuddered. "It was pure chance that I didn't drink it. Anyway…" She looked up at the ceiling, as if assessing the light from what little she could see of it. "Judging by the way the sun has moved, it's coming up to six now. We left that village just before half past two, and we were on the road for about twenty minutes, roughly another ten minutes after you became unconscious. I know it was nearly three when we stopped, because I was fiddling with my phone, trying to work out a way of sending a message to the station. That was when they took it off me - ."

"Wait a minute!" he interrupted. "Are you saying you travelled another ten minutes, _knowing_ that you were being abducted? I mean, didn't you try to jump out, or something?"

"And what would I have done with _you_?" she asked, irritably. "You were like a sack of potatoes!"

"You could have left me," he suggested, quietly.

She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, looking at him intently, her face strangely blank. "Would _you_ have left _me_? Completely helpless, unable to defend myself? When you knew that the truck was heading in the direction of a bay with notoriously rough seas, and you had _no_ idea just how ruthless those men were?"

"Well, no, of _course_ not -."

" _Well_ , then." Her eyes didn't leave his face. He couldn't read any particular message in them, but he saw that her hands were shaking.

He reached over and took one of them in his. Rather to his surprise, she didn't resist. Her slimmer fingers curled around his large hand tightly, almost possessively.

"So…uh, where was I? Oh yes, the Residency. I was there yesterday. Some shindig of the Commissioner. I remember I felt very out of place." He closed his eyes, picturing it as he spoke. In the gardens, hot in his jacket and making awkward small talk with the rich matrons of Honore. Stepping back to avoid a woman's over-enthusiastic gestures, and bumping into a man in the flower beds right behind him. Turning slightly, an automatic 'sorry' on his lips. The man – a gardener – looking at him impassively before turning away…

"Why did you think he was a gardener?" Camille interrupted his description.

"Um – I don't really know," he admitted, trying to remember. "He was wearing gardener's overalls, I think? Or something like. And was wheeling a large potted plant in a wheelbarrow. And no one was challenging him. I guess I just assumed."

Camille nodded, frowning in thought. "Sir Selwyn only employs one gardener, and the grounds are large. He 'borrows' additional gardeners from the Botanic Gardens, so no one would be surprised to see a new face… But obviously he _wasn't_ a gardener."

"A smuggler, you think?  Didn't you say this harbour used to be used to transport goods to Guadeloupe? That orchid…?"

"Wouldn't be the orchids," she interrupted. "They wouldn't survive the journey. They need to be preserved properly and transported by plane. No – it's something to do with the Commissioner. They've stolen something from the Residency and took it out disguised in a potted plant, but _what_? It's not as if he keeps anything particularly valuable there – he's too canny for that. There are some artworks, but they would be too easily traced. No buyer would take the risk. What could they possibly take from the Sainte-Marie Residency that wouldn't be recognised and tracked through the Caribbean?"

She frowned for a moment, trying to visualise the Residency, and then shook herself. "OK. I guess we had better start trying to get out of here if you're well enough. Do you think you can move now?"

That was debatable. His head was still very muzzy and he felt as if he could drink an entire lake, his mouth was so dry. His muscles felt shaky, but on the other hand he was shivering, so perhaps moving around would be a good thing. He scrambled to his feet and found that he could manage as long as he didn't put too much pressure on his injured leg. He shivered violently and was newly conscious of his thin t-shirt and Bermuda shorts. There was a much fresher breeze on this side of the island, and it whistled through the slats in the hut.

Camille made her way to the large double-doors that appeared to make up the entirety of one end of the hut.  She tried the handle, seeming unsurprised when the doors wouldn't budge. She looked around, but there were no windows – what little light there was came through the slats in the roof.

Talking of which… He hobbled to the nearest wall and began to push and pull at the wet slats, trying to find a weakness, but the little structure seemed surprisingly sound and appeared to be reinforced with vertical planks at crucial sections on the outside. It was surprisingly well-constructed for what appeared to be a simple beach shack.

"Not that I'm an expert on beach huts or anything but… you'd expect some of the wood to have rotted by now since it's so wet," he commented, making his cautious way along the wall.

"It's in surprisingly good condition," she agreed, from the opposite wall.

"It occurs to me," he added, after a few fruitless minutes, "- that it's quite new. Or has been rebuilt recently. If that gang has been storing stolen goods here, they wouldn't want anyone breaking in."

"Mmm." She had stopped pushing at the wooden slats along the walls and now stood staring fixedly at the cracks in the roof. Although the dimensions of the hut were fairly small, the roof was high – well out of even Humphrey's reach.

"I need to get up there," she muttered.

He looked around, a little helplessly. "Could be tricky."

Her eyes alighted on the empty crates and she walked over to take a look. She picked up one crate and wrinkled up her nose as it fell apart in her hands.

"Rotten. And they wouldn't be high enough anyway." She gave him an assessing look. "Could you bear my weight for a few minutes?"

He doubted it and even more so when he realised that she was considering standing on his shoulders. Even on one of his _better_ days, he was liable to stumble and drop her, so with a sprained knee and an infected cut that was making him feel light-headed, the odds weren’t great.

But it really did look like their only option. Camille tried a few judicious kicks around the doors, trying to dislodge whatever was barring them from the other side. She then went around the floor on her hands and knees, trying to find a gap between the wood and the concrete floor, while Humphrey applied his shoulder to a few promising-looking panels. There _was_ a gap between wall and floor, all the way around the hut, but it certainly wasn't big enough for even Camille to slip through, and the wooden panels were fixed solid.

In the end, she gave him a helpless shrug and a meaningful look at the ceiling. He braced himself against a wall and cupped his hands to make a stirrup. She was as quick as she could possibly be, grabbing hold of a hook to take as much of her weight as possible once she was on his shoulders, with his hands around her ankles. He cringed as the hook creaked alarmingly, but she seemed unfazed, standing on tiptoe and stretching as high as possible to prod at one of the ceiling boards with a broken-off section of crate.

"Any luck?" he asked, hopefully. The sweat was starting to run down his face from the strain, and he was trying very hard not to notice the pain shooting through his knee.

She banged at a couple of boards with the crate and swore under her breath. "Feels just as solid as the rest."

"Camille, I think…" His injured knee was starting to buckle.

"Yes, OK." She shimmied down his body, jumping the last few feet. As she raised her arm to throw away the broken piece of crate, she hesitated and held it up again, sniffing the wood.

"What is it?"

"Don't know. Reminds me of something."

His ears pricked up. "Drugs?"

She frowned, clearly unsure. "I don't…think so."

He looked around. "So…we really _are_ stuck in here."

"Unless you have any bright ideas?"

He sighed, sliding down the wall to sit heavily on the floor, not really registering the dampness. "This is _ridiculous_! How can we be stuck in a stupid wooden hut? Don't you keep any tools on you – a Swiss army knife or something?"

She glared at him. "No. Do _you_?"

He indicated his flimsy beach clothes with a grimace. "I just thought, with the bike…"

She exclaimed. "The bike! I had forgotten that – it seems so long ago. Not that it'll make much difference." She slumped on the floor next to him. "Even if someone drives along that road, they're not going to be very curious about a damaged bike propped against a tree."

"Even if they are, who's going to connect that bike with you? I don't suppose you happened to drop by the station to see Fidel or Dwayne before you picked me up?"

"No." She sighed, running a hand across her eyes. "And they took my phone; it's probably at the bottom of the ocean by now."

"You sent a message to Fidel before we left the village."

"Yes, but it wasn't very informative. I left a message on his mobile, but there didn't seem much point in giving details when he couldn't come to collect us. I told him we'd had an accident and that I'd be in touch again once we got back to Honore." She paused. "I remember he sounded very worried in his message to me. I wonder what the case is?"

He shrugged. "Well, he can't help us at the moment. Let's try to think things through. We can't get out, so we'll have to wait until someone finds us."

He tried to sound brisk and practical to hide his concern, although it was clear that she understood the implications. At the weekend, it'd be a while before either of them was reported missing. Even when they were, they'd left very few clues for Fidel and Dwayne to follow. They had no idea of the intentions of the gang and whether they would return before they could be rescued.

She choked out an unamused laugh. "Waiting to be found doesn't sound very appealing to _me_. And if we're going to find a way out ourselves, it needs to be soon. We haven't got any lights on us and there's no artificial light around here, so once the sun goes…"

That was his fear too, but it seemed pointless to keep trying. Nevertheless, he took a piece of the broken crate and started poking it around in the minute gap between 2 overlapping planks of wood, trying to lever them apart. He noticed that she was doing something similar with a small stone that she'd found on the floor.

He changed the subject. "Unless you've got a better idea, let's talk it through. Back at the village, you sounded uncertain about the orchids being transferred. What was it that worried you?"

She shrugged, focusing on scraping away at the wood with her stone. "Nothing specific. It just seemed odd. In villages like that, they _sleep_ on Sundays. They don't lift a finger, if they can help it. So, why were they transferring orchids on a Sunday? That implies that they'd just picked them that morning – but _why_? Surely they could have waited until tomorrow? It's not _that_ big an industry – not big enough to employ workers seven days a week. And also…do you remember how quiet that place was? They might not do anything on a Sunday, but they usually sit outside their houses, gossiping with the neighbours. There was hardly anyone there, and all the front doors were closed. _That's_ not Sainte-Marie custom."

"So…" Humphrey drummed his fingers. "The man removes something from the Residency, taking advantage of the party, which meant there were a lot of people in the grounds. Being dressed as a gardener, no one would have given him a second glance. _I_ didn't. Would he have been able to get into the _house_ , though? Most people were outside, so he might have been more noticeable there -."

"Maybe _that's_ the case Fidel was called out to?" she interrupted. "Perhaps Patterson’s only just noticed that something is missing."

"But, we come back to: how did he get into the house? Unless he had a waiter's outfit hidden under his overalls or something like that? Anyway… he brings that item to the hamlet, hides it among the orchids in the truck. That explains why they were moving them on a Sunday – because they had to get whatever it is off Sainte-Marie before Sir Selwyn noticed."

"But what could they hide on an _orchid_? If it was going out by the usual route, it'd be found at the depot where they pack the flowers -."

"Unless they have an inside man there. Someone who'd be there to receive and pack the flowers on a Sunday? Then they'd be ready to go out on the first flight to Guadeloupe on Monday morning, and from there to…wherever." He sighed. "I don't know. There's too much that could go wrong in that scenario. I supposed the boxes would be labelled for a specific destination, but even so, customs…"

"Customs wouldn't open them if they'd been packed at the depot…or I suppose they might open just the front window to check there were orchids inside," she commented. They both knew what she was referring too. The drugs trade on Sainte-Marie was pretty controlled. The compact size of the island coupled with strict controls on land use meant it was just about impossible to grow narcotics on the island, hence customs didn't usually expect to see anything illegal being exported. Imports were more of a problem.

They were silent for a few minutes, both of them busily chipping away at the wooden slats. Humphrey had managed to force his hand in between two panels enough to wriggle his fingers in the outside air, but the slats wouldn't give any more than that. The noise of the waves outside seemed to have grown louder.

"You know," Camille said, suddenly. "I don't think they store anything in here at all. If they did, it'd be more cluttered and we might find a useful tool. But there's _nothing_ here, apart from those mouldy crates…" She paused in her work and looked around at the space and then up at the high ceiling, before exclaiming, "It's a _boathouse_! That explains why it's so empty. You could just about fit a motorboat in this space. They must keep it in case they need to make a quick getaway. And that would explain why it is so well-maintained. They'd be worried about one of the locals stealing the boat. It sounded quite powerful, from what I could hear, so it must be worth a bit of money."

He shivered. "It would have to be powerful if they launched it from here." He could hear the wind whipping up the waves in the bay; he was no expert on tides, but it sounded like an angry sea to him. It reminded him of the rough waters off the Purbecks in Dorset – or perhaps south west Cornwall. The sort of sea where boats could quite easily end up dashed against the rocks…

"Wait a minute," he said suddenly, urgently. "You say it's a boathouse. How would they get a heavy motorboat up onto the beach and into it?"

She looked at him blankly for a moment and then an expression of horror appeared in her eyes. "They _wouldn't_. Which means it's -."

"- filled with water at high tide," he finished. "Which _also_ explains why it's so wet in here." He staggered to his feet and looked at the uneven concrete floor, at the salty puddles in the dips. Was it his imagination or were there already more of them?

Camille bit her lip as she also stood. "I should have realised sooner. _Stupid_! _That_ was why that boy looked so sorry for us! And the tide – it's -."

"- coming in! I _know_!" He looked around desperately, trying to think. The rise and fall of the waves outside sounded much closer than they had before.

"It's not going to fill the hut _right_ up."

"But high enough for a motor boat to float in it, including the keel," he pointed out. "Just how high is that likely to _be_ on a motor boat?"

They looked at each other and then, obviously thinking the same thing, looked up at the hook in the wall that Camille had held on to earlier. It was about twelve feet off the ground, and there was another hook at the same height on the opposite wall, plus two more at the back of the boathouse.

"They probably chain the boat to those hooks, to stop it moving around too much in the waves," she said, slowly.

"Yes - which would be about deck level," he continued, desperately trying to remember anything he'd ever learned about boats during Sally's sailing days in Bournemouth. "And if we assume that the keel is roughly the same length as the hull to balance it out -."

"– then the water level in here should be about six feet at full tide," she finished.

"Is that even _possible_?" he asked. "For the tide to rise so high?"

"The tides are much higher on the west coast. It's quite sloping," she said, looking nervously up at the hook. Suddenly, it seemed very far from the floor.

He glanced at the doors. The swell of a wave splashed loudly onto the sand right outside and some water came under them and spread quickly across the floor.

"OK, OK…" he breathed in deeply, trying to calm down. "This is _not good_."

Camille gave him a desperate look. "Humphrey, what are we going to do?"


	10. Chapter 10

Humphrey looked around the empty boathouse rather helplessly. A few rotting wooden crates and that was all. There was nothing that looked even remotely useful in their current situation.

Camille moved slightly nearer to him, her attention on the sea water that was spreading across the floor. It looked innocuous at the moment, but…

"How long does it take for the tide to come in, anyway?" he asked.

" _God_ , Humphrey, I don't know! I have never paid much attention, really."

"Well, I just thought - ."

" _What_? That if you're born on a Caribbean island, you must know everything there is to know about the sea?" She didn't take her eyes off the water. "I hate to break it to you, Humphrey, but not everyone who lives on an island is _that_ interested in boats or swimming!"

"But you _can_ swim!  I’ve seen you!"

"Yes, of _course_ , but I don't care for it much. And the thought of having to tread water for several hours in rough cold water…"

He looked up at the hook. "We'll have to try to hang on to that."

"We can't! It's too high…"

"Well, then, what about -," he looked at the wooden crates again. "Could we break those up and stick them into the wooden slats so we had something to hang on to?"

She looked at them a little doubtfully. "I suppose it's worth a try."

They hurried over to the crates, picked them up and began to pull them apart, trying to select the sections that looked strongest.

"Where…?" Humphrey looked at the walls, irresolute.

"One of the side walls," Camille suggested. " _Not_ too near the door – if someone opened it suddenly, we'd probably get swept out on the tide. It's the same with the back wall – there might be a big wave that crashed straight through the hut."

"OK – no, wait a minute! What if we use a longer bit to stick across the corner at a right angle? We might create a little seat or step that one of us could get on."

She looked down at the rotting wood. "I really don't think this stuff would hold our weight for any length of time, though."

He limped across to a corner near the door with a couple of likely-looking pieces and held them up, assessing. He feared that she was probably right. Besides, it meant they were further from the hooks on the wall, and he had some ideas about how one of them might be useful. He moved to the wall beneath one of the hooks and started jamming planks in between the slats in the wall, at different heights. He stood on tiptoe to try to get them in at about shoulder height while Camille passed them to him.

The problem was that the gap between slats was not that big, and the pieces of wood, already rather weak, simply kept snapping as soon as he tried to push them with any force. He managed to jam in a couple of jagged pieces at a slight angle that might just hold Camille's weight if it came to it, but were highly unlikely to hold his.

He stopped, panting from the effort. "It's no good. I don't think it's going to work."

"I think you're right," she said, in a tight, little voice.

He looked at her for a moment and then grabbed one of the abandoned planks and started hitting the wall wildly. His leg forgotten, he swung hard at it several times, applying the full force of his weight behind the blows.

After a few minutes of this, she grabbed his arm. "Stop it! You're not making any difference and you'll just tire yourself out."

"We need to make some noise!"

"Who do you think will hear you – with _that_ going on out there?" She gestured at the door and he listened to the sound of crashing waves. She shivered violently. "Even if someone _did_ come down to this cove, which isn't likely."

The water was now lapping over their feet. It was cold and Humphrey also shivered. It seemed odd to feel chilled after so many months of sweltering weather.

"I suppose -," he speculated, looking up at the hook. "- I could tear up my t-shirt and try to make a rope with it. We could loop it over that hook."

She looked a little dubiously at his worn t-shirt; it was several years' old and the fabric was thin in places. "Would it hold us?"

"Possibly you."

She looked up at the hook, considering. "I suppose you could try. You might get cold, though."

"I'm cold _now_. To be honest, removing a layer is _not_ going to make much difference." He didn't bother to point out that, once they were floating in deep cold water, a single layer of cotton was unlikely to prevent hypothermia setting in.  She almost certainly knew that already.

He pulled the t-shirt over his head and went to work on it, tearing it into as many strips as he could and tying the sections together. It was, of course, not possible to reach the hook yet, but he coiled it around his wrist so that it was ready for him to loop over if it came to it. He thought it unlikely that it would hold their weight for as long as it would need to, but it might be a way of staying together and keeping their heads above water for a while. He just prayed that someone would find them in time. He wouldn't even mind if it were the smugglers with a change of heart – being drugged again was preferable to drowning in a blasted _hut_.

She gave him a shaky smile. "That looked like one of your favourite t-shirts. You are going to be _so_ annoyed if Fidel and Dwayne turn up to rescue us now."

He grinned. "I wouldn't mind at all. In fact, I'd quite like to be bloody annoyed…" He looked up at the ceiling and shouted, "You hear that, Fidel, Dwayne? If you want an instant promotion and pay rise, now's the time to show up!"

"Well," she shrugged. "I'd offer you my top to add to the strength, but…"

"That's quite alright," he said, quickly. "If mine won't hold us, I doubt yours would make much difference."

She leaned against the wall, looking at the water coming in under the door with each wave. It was swirling around their ankles.

"When I was a kid," he said, leaning next to her. "We went camping once in Cornwall, to a little village on the west coast called Polzeath. It's very popular with surfers. And there's a smallish bay, where the tide goes way out. You can walk out over the sand for… well, not exactly _miles_ , but a long way. And I was fascinated by the rock pools below the cliffs that hug either side of the bay. Anyway, I was there one day by myself and the tide started to come in. The thing was, I hadn't noticed. And then, suddenly, I looked down and there was water over my ankles – just like this. So I looked around and there was water _everywhere_. I was standing on a raised rock and when I tried stepping off to paddle back to the beach, the water was _deep_. It was above my waist. And I wasn't the best swimmer in the world so… I was completely stuck. I was seven years old at the time."

"Where were your parents?"

"Mum was sunbathing at the campsite – she never ventured out much when we went on holiday. Dad had taken my brothers to Newquay to see a surfing competition. I didn't mind – I preferred to be by myself. And I could usually get myself out of trouble just as fast as I got myself into it."

She was quiet for a moment, contemplating the water. "What did you do?"

"There were some older boys up on the cliff top. They were waving and yelling at me, trying to show me where to climb the cliff. I…well, you know _me_." He smiled, ruefully. "I was as accident-prone _then_ as I am _now_. I just knew I was going to slip and fall. All I could think of was what my mum would say… I didn't do too badly, all things considered," he added, contemplatively. "I got most of the way up, and then I _did_ fall, a few feet onto rocks. Fractured my wrist in the process. They had to get the lifeboat dinghy out to pluck me off the rocks. And we had to cut the holiday short. Mum was _furious_."

She looked up at him in surprise. "But – but wasn't she _worried_?"

He laughed. "Oh yes, she _was_ , underneath it all. It was just her way. She hated showing emotion." He shook his head. "God, I've made her sound _horrible_ and she really wasn't. Just terribly English. But I remember she made my favourite cakes while I was laid up with my wrist. Chocolate cake and caramel squares…and home-made lemonade," he went on, remembering. "It was a hot year – for England, that is – too hot to be outside with your arm in plaster. So, I sat in the lounge with the curtains closed and a nice cold glass of lemonade, and watched cartoons while Mum knitted. It was…surprisingly nice."

The water was around their calves now. He nudged her.

"Go on. I've given you a nostalgic childhood tale, and now it's _your_ turn."

She grimaced. "I'm not sure I'd call it _nostalgic_. Nearly drowning and breaking your wrist."

"Well…it _was_ , in a way, because I felt closer to my mum that summer than I ever had before, or since, if I'm honest. But also, I _survived_." He looked at her profile as she contemplated the water around her legs. "I tend to make a habit of surviving against the odds. So do _you_. You're _trained_ to survive."

She gave a dry laugh. "I'm not sure I've ever been in this type of situation before. I'm better when there's something I can actually _do_. I'm not so good at just… _waiting_."

He reached over and grabbed her hand. She didn't look up at him, but squeezed his fingers tightly.

"So come on," he prompted her. "Tell me some heart-warming tale about the young Camille. How did your mother spoil you when you were ill or feeling fed up?"

" _Not_ with home-made lemonade or chocolate cake," she said, sounding amused. "Although, I used to love this one pudding - I think she had the recipe from her mother. Sweet potato pudding cake." Her voice sounded dreamy. "With a spoonful of coconut cream… I _loved_ it. Of course, that was before I appreciated just how many calories there were in a portion… She was busy with the bar most of the time, but she'd close it on public holidays and then we'd sit on the sofa and eat and drink far too much and watch old films. It was…" she hesitated and then smiled reminiscently. "It was _nice_ – just the two of us for once."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "You know, I haven't craved anything much since I came here…but right _now_ , I would mind some of Mum's lemonade."

She laughed. "You're not like Richard in that regard. He was always obsessed with finding the perfect cup of tea. I don't think he ever _did_ , however hard he tried. Although there _was_ that hotel that time…"

Her voice trailed away, her face darkening.

"Tell me," he prompted her. "Tell me…" _Tell me why you love him so much._ "Tell me about the tea."

She stirred. "Oh, well even my mother couldn't make the perfect cup for him. But Richard finally found a pot of tea that suited him at one of the big hotels…and then he had to leave it to go to a crime scene!" She laughed at the memory. "But – you know he went back to London once?"

"Yes. I was at the Met then, but away on a case. I was sorry to miss him."

"Well, he brought half a _case_ full of tea back with him. I've never seen so many little boxes - of teabags and loose leaf tea, all different varieties."

She shifted and gripped his hand more tightly. The water was rising above her knees and pushing at her a little.

"The thing is, until _then_ , I just assumed that Richard was a typical Englishman, wanting a cup of tea over any other drink and just being fussy because it didn't taste the same as at home. But it wasn't _just_ that. He was a connoisseur of tea _itself_ , and he liked all varieties. Ordinary black leaf tea, but also Earl Grey, Lady Grey, Darjeeling, Assam, varieties of green tea…

“Not long after he returned, there was a big storm forecast and I was worried about him there in the beach house by himself, so I went to see if he was alright. He was fine, but then the storm came in and it was too dangerous for me to leave. There was no electricity, and the wind was howling around the house and it was dark. But Richard had a little camping stove to boil a kettle on…and we sat there in the storm and tried all the different teas. He was explaining to me where they came from and what ingredients went into them and what the optimum weather conditions were…." She shook her head, a little smile on her lips. "He really did know all those things… And the best of it was that when he was talking to me, his face was so – so animated! You know? He never seemed very happy or enthusiastic most of the time, but when he was talking to you about something he knew, he just lit up inside. I should have been bored, but..."

"I think I can understand," he ventured, cautiously. "I used to read his files back at the Met. He sounded like an interesting man."

"That's what I don't _understand_ ," she burst out, vehemently. "I shouldn't have – I don't know why he _mattered_ so much to me! When I first met him, he – he drove me _mad_! He was so _exacting_ , so fussy about the rules and regulations… I didn't think he would last five minutes. And if you'd asked me back then, I would have been happy for him to go. I resented him. I thought he was grumpy, unfriendly, and rude about Sainte-Marie. And his stupid suits! Always so hot, but he would never unbend enough to even take off his tie. And he hated the beach. I don't think he would ever have been reconciled with life on Sainte-Marie. So why did I have to fall for _him_ of all people?"

"We can't choose who we love," he said, gently. "You must have seen beneath his mask. I think he was probably a very caring person, really. He just wasn't very good at showing it."

"I didn't even realise." Her voice was very quiet; he could hardly hear it over the waves. "Not until… until it was too late. I mean, I liked his company in an odd way and I knew I cared about him as a friend at least. And he was – I found him attractive. When he left for London, I was sure he wouldn't come back, and then when he did, I was _so happy_ and I didn't even understand _why_ …"

He grasped her hand tightly, but didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," she said, after a few minutes. "Here I am going on about my own troubles… You see, I don't actually know that we _are_ going to get through this, Humphrey. It feels like we're in a tomb… And _please_ don't say that we will; I know that you're trying to cheer me up, but you know as well as I do that this is _not_ a good situation. I just wish I'd told Fidel where we were. And I'm worried about Maman – what will she do when she finds out? And – and I regret so much. I wish I'd told her this morning that I love her. And I wish I'd told Richard how I felt before it was too late. But you must have regrets also - and you're so far away from your family here…"

Her voice died away. It was now too dark to see her face and he couldn't tell whether or not she was crying silently. Not sure what to say, he let go of her hand to put his arm around her shoulders.

He felt bone-weary; the adrenaline of danger had long since deserted him, and his leg ached terribly. He thought briefly of his mother; of that all-too-brief summer when he had been at the centre of her attention and affection instead of just being the youngest and least promising of her three sons. He thought of his dad, who had always been a distant and disapproving parent. And he thought of Sally. Remembering something, his spare hand went to his shorts pocket. Against all the odds, her letter was still there.

His heart sank as he remembered that he had been planning to write to her. He'd wanted to set things straight between them. He knew it had been hard for her to write that letter. Now, she might never receive a reply, might never know that he still cared about her and wished her happiness despite what had happened between them.

And then there was Camille… She wished she'd told Richard that she loved him. Humphrey ached to make the same confession to _her_ …and yet, how could he? Wouldn't it be selfish to burden her with such knowledge? And, if they _did_ survive, how could he work with her again?

The point was, both she and Richard had sensed a mutual attraction. In her heart, she knew, as had Richard before he'd died, that if either of them had made a declaration it wouldn't have been rejected. Compared to that assurance, his own feelings for Camille seemed facile. The romantic feelings were all on his side, he felt sure of that. She felt nothing for him but simple friendship. Sure, it would certainly give her something to focus on apart from their dire situation, but to what end? It would only cause more distress for her.

"Yes," he murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear. "I _would_ have regrets if I didn't survive…which is precisely why I'm _determined_ to survive." He tightened his hold on her and raised his voice. "We _will_ get through this, Camille. We _have_ to. We've both got people who need us to get through it."

He could feel the current pushing and pulling at his legs as the waves swept in and out of the boathouse. He reached behind him with one hand and grabbed hold of one of the pieces of wood he had shoved into the wall. The other hand he slipped down around Camille's waist, gripping the waistband of her shorts as tightly as possible. "We need to try to stay together for as long as we can. I would tie us together with this t-shirt, but I'm worried that I'll pull you down if I can't float anymore. When the level gets higher, I'll try to loop the middle over that hook and then we can each hang on to one end.

"Try floating on your back as much as possible," she advised. "We'll need to avoid too much treading water if we're going to save our energy. Just kick around enough to stop your hands and feet from getting numb."

The water was at mid-thigh by now. She was flung against him by a particularly strong swell, but braced herself more strongly against the wall. Like him, she grabbed the wood with one hand and put her other around his waist.

"Funny really," she said, raising her voice to be heard. "It seemed like such a good idea this morning. A nice day out on the bike, lunch in some café, a view of the west coast…"

He smiled in the darkness. "It _was_ a good idea. We had fun at first, didn't we?"

She didn't say anything, but her fingers squeezed his waist.

"You know," he commented after a period of silence. "If it helps at all, I'm pretty sure that Richard knew how you felt."

She was silent for a moment. "It _does_ help. And you're right, I think he did, or he suspected. His diary suggests that he did. How _ironic_ if he knew me better than I knew myself."

"Enough to consider breaking his rule about fraternization," he pointed out. "I was wondering… it must be hard for you to come into work every day when he's no longer there. Especially with me sitting at his desk. If you wanted a transfer for a while, I wouldn't blame you."

" _What_?" Her face whipped around to look at him. "And leave _you_ in charge at Honore? I wouldn't _think_ of it. Goodness knows what you boys would get up to without _me_ there to keep you in order."

He grinned, trying to ignore the coldness of the water that was now lapping at his hips. The level was already above her waist. "True. Well, if you don't mind… It's not that I _want_ you to leave."

She laughed, a little hysterically. "What a strange conversation to be having at this moment!"

"What do you suggest? A sing-a-long? I'm sure I can think up some of the songs we used to do in Scouts."

She was still laughing. "I'm sure you could! Maybe that should be a last resort."

"Yes, if the casual conversation dries up…  Camille, are you OK? You need to _stop_ laughing now and try to breathe."

She made an effort to stop, choking a little. "Sorry. That's not clever. Hysterics won't help now. Humphrey?"

"Mmm?" The water was pushing hard at him now, threatening to knock him off his feet. His fingers slipped on the sodden wood as he pushed himself harder against the wall and linked his fingers through her shorts belt to hang on.

"I just want you to know, that if I have to drown in a boathouse…I couldn't think of a better person to be with."

"Er, thanks...I think."

"No, I mean it." She gave him a sober look. "I'm going to try very hard _not_ to drown, you understand, but…you're a good person. And a good friend. I…wasn't very nice to you when you arrived."

"Understandable. You were in a bad way at the time."

"No, but…" She was silent for a moment, clearly thinking hard. "I guess I wasn't all that nice to Richard either. He really _did_ hate it here. And I wasn't very tolerant." She smiled at him. "Do you think I would have liked London better?"

He smiled back, trying to conceal the cold ache in his heart. "Would you have moved to London, for him?"

She contemplated that. "Yes. I think so. I would have given it a try…for his sake. I'm not sure the Metropolitan would have liked my methods, though."

He laughed. "Possibly not, but you'd have certainly brightened the place up!"

"Humphrey…not sure I can hold on…"

A large wave swept through the hut. Camille slipped and grabbed at Humphrey's shoulders to try to keep her balance. He felt the splintered edges of the wood lacerate his fingers as he hung on, grimly.

"This is crazy! We'll be dashed against the walls and probably knocked before we're even out of our depth!" she gasped.

He looked up at the hook, barely making it out in the dark. If only it was a bit lower and he could reach it with his makeshift rope…

" _Wait_ -," she grabbed his arm tightly. " _Listen_ …did you hear something? A voice…?"

For a moment he feared she was starting to imagine things, but he listened obediently. Suddenly the sound came again, a bit nearer.

"…boss? ... there?"

"Oh, thank God, _thank God_ ," he breathed and turned around, banging loudly on the wall. " _Dwayne_! It's us – we're in the boathouse! We're _here_!"

Camille let go of him, grabbed a bit of floating wood and banged as hard as she could, shouting between bangs. "Dwayne! Fidel! Help us!"

"Boss! Camille!" There was the flash of a torch in their direction – its beam was strong enough to come through the slats. "They're here…"

They could hear some voices conferring and then the splashing of someone wading through the water.

"Boss?" Dwayne was right outside now. "We're getting you out of there. We've got axes and will knock down the back wall. The coastguard is here, but they think it'll be too difficult to open the door with the water there. Just hold tight and try to get near the back wall if you can – but not too near in case it collapses."

"OK, got it. Thanks, Dwayne."

He looked at Camille, grabbed her hand and breathed a quick prayer of thankfulness as they fought their way towards the back wall.

 


	11. Chapter 11

"Ok, give me the facts."

Three hours' later, Humphrey was sitting up on a bed in the small private hospital that usually cared for members of the police force on Sainte-Marie, courtesy of Selwyn Patterson's rather surprising generosity. His cut had been stitched up and he'd been given a tetanus booster. His knee had been diagnosed as a minor sprain and he had been advised to rest it for a few days.

 _Chance will be a fine_ thing, he thought to himself as he waited impatiently to be discharged. The delay was due to the blood sample that had been taken and was currently being tested to check exactly what he'd been drugged with. He was still in his shorts, but had been given a hospital gown to cover up. The sad remains of his t-shirt had been chucked in the bin.

Dwayne and Fidel were perched on chairs in his private room, still in their damp uniforms. Fidel had his customary notebook open on his knee. He'd passed Humphrey a preliminary pathologist report to read.

"Samples have gone off to Guadeloupe this afternoon, Sir, but to be honest, it's a formality. It's clearly an overdose."

"We've seen this one before," Dwayne added, his voice and the dark expression on his face telling Humphrey that the unspoken subtext was _too many times_. "The symptoms are too similar to miss it."

Humphrey looked carefully at the photos attached to the front of the sparse file with a paperclip. Fidel had obtained a recent image of the eighteen year old girl from her grieving parents – so recent it'd been taken on the first day of the British family's arrival at their holiday home. A pretty blonde girl smiled out at him, her arm slung casually around the shoulders of her older brother. She was the picture of innocence and teenage good health, unlike her older brother, whose slightly hazy expression suggested that he was intoxicated with something, even if only mildly. Humphrey's heart clenched as he compared the girl's happy image with that of her dead body – naked from the waist up, with dried blood around her mouth and a spreading bruise across her ribs from the violent efforts employed by a medical team to try to thump her heart back into beating.

" _Christ_ , I hope they cleaned her up before the parents identified her," he muttered, frowning at the notes below.

It was depressingly familiar. Fidel, as the on-duty officer, had been called to the local hospital in Honore at 11.45 that morning. The girl, Emilia Lawrence, had been found unconscious by her brother at around 8.30; they'd been at an all-night party. He'd called an ambulance and the team had spent some time trying to resuscitate her from a major heart attack. The doctors had identified the symptoms as similar to five other drug-related deaths this year.

"Patterson wants it investigated immediately. The family have had a house here for years and have invested heavily in the island…and they are friends of his. The main difference between _this_ death and the others is that they were local kids and were known to take drugs," Dwayne said. "So it's been given low priority up to now…"

" _Low priority_?" Humphrey exclaimed, outraged, just as Camille came in, wearing borrowed scrubs and with her wet clothes in a plastic bag. He glanced in her direction; like him, she'd received minor treatment for various injuries. He handed her the file and focused his attention on Dwayne.

"Not by _us_ ," Dwayne continued, with some emphasis on the final word. The laid-back officer seemed unusually angry. "We've been pushing Guadeloupe to look closer at the known trafficking routes, but they tell us that it's just 'one of those things' - kids like to party hard here and that there'll be some casualties. Makes me _sick_ , if you want to know the truth. Just cos they're habitual drug users doesn't make it OK."

"It's a cocktail based on cocaine, according to the earlier tox reports," Fidel jumped in before his colleague could say anything else. "We're just waiting for the lab to confirm that this is the same. Dwayne and I have been investigating it the last couple of weeks, when we can."

Humphrey nodded. He remembered Fidel talking about it at the last team meeting. Drug trafficking, particularly of cocaine, was an inevitable fact of life on a Caribbean island with direct routes from South America. Fortunately, strict regulations made it more-or-less impossible to grow hard drugs on Sainte-Marie, but he was quite used to Fidel and Dwayne following cross-border trafficking trails and closing them down with judicious arrests where they could. Guadeloupe to France was a popular route for the drug mules, and they often hopped over to Sainte-Marie in the hope of escaping attention.

"This is something different, though," he said, looking at Fidel and Dwayne through narrowed eyes. "A cocktail, you said. Something new?"

His junior officers looked at each other. He knew them well enough by now to recognise their concern.

"It comes as a joint," Fidel began. "We found one, half smoked, at the squat where the last victim was found. Looked like cannabis at first, but we sent it off for analysis and it wasn't. It matched the toxins found in his blood - definitely cocaine, but also something that they hadn't seen before. And here's the thing. It's only appeared _here_ \- on Sainte-Marie. Usually we get these 'designer drugs' coming over from the bigger islands once the craze has been established. But _this_ one hasn't been found anywhere else yet. I keep checking with forensics across the region."

"Cocktails do come up from time to time, especially among recreational cocaine users," added Dwayne. "They're usually looking for something extra – to intensify the experience."

"As if it wasn't intense enough," Camille murmured. Humphrey glanced at her; she was sitting in one of the visitor chairs, staring at the photographs.

"Sometimes, it's not necessarily about increasing the risk," Dwayne continued. "More often, it's a way of diluting the strength of the cocaine without losing the effects. Makes it cheaper and also safer…assuming the mixture has been created safely."

"What would you mix it with?" Humphrey wondered. He'd dealt with plenty of drug trafficking in the past, particularly in the Far East, but was not so familiar with the South American/Caribbean routes.

Fidel frowned. "That's what we're trying to find out. Probably something hallucinogenic. May even be some kind of local herb with minor effects by itself, but when combined with cocaine…"

Camille got up suddenly and came over to the bed to show Humphrey the photograph. " _She's_ no habitual drug taker," she said, tapping at the photograph, first on Emilia's face and then on her brother's. "But _he_ is. Am I right?"

Fidel nodded. "Yes. We saw that too. Pulled him in for questioning and he admitted it almost immediately. He'd 'obtained' the joint from someone at the party, for his own use, but she must have got it off him somehow – he didn't know how. He woke up in bed with some girl at the party, went to collect his sister…and found her unconscious. Actually, it's how we found _you_."

Humphrey and Camille shared a glance. "I _was_ wondering how you managed to trace us."

Dwayne grinned and pulled something out of his pocket. "Recognise _this_?"

He threw it at Humphrey, who fumbled to catch it. It was a stump of broken pencil, but he could just make out the pink colour and a familiar annoyingly perky silhouette.

A couple of months' previously, Camille had finally lost her patience at the sight of Humphrey searching hopelessly in his pockets for something to write on and with. She'd announced her intention to order in a large quantity of pencils and notebooks, which she proposed to keep with her _at all times_ , ready to hand over whenever he needed something. He was grateful for this – he frequently ordered in his own stationery, but things just seemed to disappear _all the time_. However, Camille, in a wicked mood, had ordered from the Hello Kitty range, which meant that Humphrey often found himself writing gory details over pale pink pages adorned with cute cat images and with a bright pink pencil. Camille might have hoped that the humiliation would encourage Humphrey to be more organised; sadly it made no difference.

He stared at the offensively cute object in his hand. "I must have had it in my pocket."

"Or possibly me," Camille admitted, sheepishly. "I might have dropped it in the village when I got my mobile out. Was that where you found it?"

"Yes." Dwayne continued the story, "We'd got the confession out of the brother pretty quickly, including a name - a first name only, of course. We had to go through the party guests but eventually, we were able to match a name to a kid that we've had in a couple of times on possession charges. Fidel had tried to contact you, but there was no reply. When we came out of the brother's interview, he checked again and got Camille's message. We tried to phone again, but no luck. So we decided to drive out to that village to pick the kid up.

"When we got there, he was nowhere in sight and his mum said he was off with his mates and she hadn't seen him for days. She looked a bit shifty but we didn't have any proof that she was lying. Just as we were leaving, I spotted that pencil in the dirt just outside her door. It _could've_ belonged to someone else, but there only seemed to be teenage boys living there – we'd looked around and there was no sign of a girl. And we'd been getting worried about the fact that you guys hadn't been in touch. We just had a feeling… So we leaned on the woman a bit, and she confessed quickly enough. Said you'd gone off with her sons and their boss and admitted that they were probably going to Guadeloupe by boat from that little harbour. She didn't know what they were carrying in the truck – some kind of plant but she wasn't sure what. I think _that_ was genuine. We alerted the coastguard as we thought we might have to chase the boat, and they met us there."

"The _really_ alarming thing," went on Fidel, "was that she admitted to giving you both some kind of sedative to make you drowsy. I think she believed the plan was to dump you both somewhere safe where you'd be found eventually or else would come round when they were safely away. But she also seemed a bit worried. I don't think she likes their boss much. And we had no idea what she'd given you – she either didn't know what it was or wouldn't tell us, and for all _we_ knew, it was the same drug that the others had died using. So we were pretty freaked. I can't tell you what a relief it was to find you in that boathouse."

"Well," Humphrey rubbed his arm, where a little round plaster covered the mark left by the needle. "Hopefully we'll find out what it was soon, but I don't think it could have been anything more than a strong sedative. And thank heavens Camille didn't like the coffee. So…evidently, they were trafficking the drug, but where did it come from in the first place? Who's producing it? And why does this case involve the Commissioner?"

Fidel looked startled. "You _know_ about the Commissioner? The brother said he met his drug dealer at the Residency party yesterday. That's one of the reasons why Patterson’s in such a state about it. I think he feels partly responsible, although he has no idea how the kid came to be there."

" _Oh_ … No, I didn't know about that, but I was at that party too and bumped into their boss, who was masquerading as a gardener. Do we have a name for him yet?"

"Working on it. We've got _a_ name, but it's false. He's fairly new to the island; only been here about six months. He met the boys at the Botanic Gardens, where they both do casual work from time to time." Fidel hesitated. "That woman _really_ didn't like him. In fact, I thought she was a bit scared of him – what did you think?"

Dwayne nodded. "Yeah, definitely. She was trying to hide it, but…yeah. I sensed that. She was worried for her sons."

Humphrey clapped his hands together. "OK. So – to recap. The ringleader has come from abroad on a false passport – we need to find out who he is and where he comes from as quickly as possible. He moves here and gets those boys to work for him moving plants of some nature – plants that are used to create that drug. Probably not the cocaine itself – someone else is dealing with that. Someone – either on Sainte-Marie or possibly Guadeloupe – is making this new cocktail, but it's not working well, not _here_ anyway. Causing these deaths…they all died the same way, I take it?"

"Yes. Sudden heart attack in each case."

"Which is always a risk with cocaine, but it must be interacting with this other plant to make the risk worse. OK…so they were planning to move some plants by boat to Guadeloupe, or possibly somewhere else in Sainte-Marie. They were using that harbour to avoid being seen. Camille and I inadvertently stumbled right into the middle of it, and that man _definitely_ recognised me. And I recognised _him_ eventually, but a little too late."

"He's a nasty man," Camille interjected. "More than a petty criminal – a murderer, I'm sure of it. That woman might have thought that drugging us would just keep us out of sight for a bit, but he _definitely_ had other plans for us. I'm sure he was going to take us out to sea and throw us over the side. The other two might not have realised what he had planned. I don't think they mean anyone to get harmed, but they were definitely afraid of him. It was only the fact that I was conscious that stopped him. While I was fighting with them, I could sense that the other two didn't want to hurt me much, but _he_ didn't care. And he left us in that boathouse to die – I'm _sure_ of it."

Humphrey sighed and rubbed his face. His knee was throbbing and he felt shattered enough to sleep for a week. "Any sign of the boat?"

"Not yet," Fidel replied. "The coastguard is onto it, but we don't have a lot to go on. There's any number of power boats in these waters, and they just don't have the resources to board each and every one of them. We rely on them coming through the main harbours. It probably wasn't registered for Sainte-Marie. He must have come into the island by it, and probably never took it through the official channels."

"We should check with Interpol to see if there's anyone they're chasing in the vicinity," Camille added. "There was something about that man. I'm sure he's a wanted killer."

"Yes, OK." Humphrey shifted and stifled a yawn. "Well, amazing though it may seem, given that I spent much of this afternoon unconscious, I could _really_ do with a good night's sleep." He swung his legs off the bed.

"But…aren't they keeping you in?"

He rolled his eyes at Camille's surprise. "I am _not_ staying here with a minor knee sprain. All I need are some crutches and antibiotics. I can manage _perfectly_ well at home."

"Yes, but…what about the drug they gave you?"

"I'm feeling fine now," he lied. As she raised a suspicious eyebrow, he sighed again. "Look, I'm _sure_ it was just a sedative. If it was anything dangerous, I would know about it by now. The hospital can ring me when they have the results."

His doctor was reluctant to discharge him, but Humphrey could be very persuasive when he felt himself to be right. Within half an hour, he'd been issued with some pills, some spare dressings and crutches, plus some very clear instructions on the importance of keeping his cut dry. "No more wading in waist-high water!" was the final comment as he said goodbye.

"Zero change of _that_ ," he muttered to himself, and looked around for the jeep. The others had gone over to the car park to bring it around to the main entrance. He glanced at a clock just inside the door and was shocked to see that it was nearly midnight. His head was throbbing again, but this time from sheer exhaustion.

The car pulled up and he limped his way into the front passenger seat. He glanced over, surprised to see Camille driving, with the others in the back.

"I'm taking the jeep home," she explained, with a wry look. "In theory, I'm on duty from 6AM tomorrow morning."

"Well, let's hope and pray that Sainte-Marie's criminals decide to take a holiday," he said, equally drily. "If it wasn't for this, I'd tell you to take the day off tomorrow, or rather _today_ …but we'd better not. I don't like this case at all."

Repressing another yawn, he issued orders on the way home. "Fidel, you get onto Interpol tomorrow morning with a description of that man, and also chase Guadeloupe for those toxicology results. Dwayne, put the word out around your contacts – even if the regular users are not prepared to provide names, they still need to know that this cocktail is dangerous and should be avoided. Also, get down to the Botanic Gardens and the Residency and ask around – does anyone know anything about him? Camille and I will go back to that village tomorrow - take a look at where he's been living and have another chat with that woman. I take it you didn't bring her in?"

"No, it didn't seem like the best idea. We warned her not to go anywhere, and I'm pretty sure she won't."

"Good. With any luck, one or the other of her sons will be in touch at some point, and it might be nice to get some kind of clue as to where they've gone. Any chance we could tap her line?"

"Might be difficult," Fidel commented after a brief silence. "We usually call Guadeloupe in if we need to do some surveillance on the phone lines. It takes them a while to set it up."

He frowned; he'd forgotten for a moment that the technology here wasn't as advanced as in Britain. "OK, forget it then. We'll think of something."

Silence fell in the car. Fidel and Dwayne were conferring quietly in the back. He was aware that the two local officers had informal contacts in the drug world that they didn't necessarily intend to share with their DI. He was fine about that, being experienced enough to recognise that it was sometimes necessary to keep out of it and trust one's junior officers to pass on the information that really mattered.

He was somehow aware that Camille was struggling _not_ to say something, but he felt deeply fatigued and simply didn't have the energy to work out what her problem was. It occurred to him that the day had taken a considerable toll on both of them, both physically and mentally, but for the moment he could only summon the reserves to cope with his own warring emotions.

He felt physically tired but also profoundly depressed. In the nervous energy of those moments when it seemed quite possible that they would not survive the night, he had found it easy to put his own concerns and regrets aside to focus on Camille's. It had felt _right_ , at the time, to draw her out on the topic of Richard and to try to be a comforting presence. It was only now, in the safe darkness of the jeep's interior, that he could acknowledge the deep pain her words had caused.

Her voice when she spoke of Richard - of her happiness in his presence and grief at the knowledge that she had never told him how she felt… It was the voice of a woman still very much in love with a dead man. And, even if he waited patiently for the feelings to fade, the harsh reality was that _he_ was nothing like Richard Poole, the good-looking, quiet, deeply intelligent detective with his little obsessions and rather odd charm. He felt gauche, clumsy, stupid and unsophisticated by comparison.

He shifted in his seat, suppressing a wince as he moved his stiff knee. No, Camille would _never_ love him in return. She might come to like him more, but it would be a pale reflection of the feelings she had had for his predecessor. It was possible that loneliness or perhaps even pity would drive her towards him at some future date…which was his greatest fear. Having made a huge mistake with Sally, he couldn't bear the prospect of another woman ending up with him for the wrong reasons.

He wanted to be _loved_ – and not just in the casually affectionate way of all his friends, who couldn't see beyond the clownish appearance and embarrassing behaviour – but in some _real_ , passionate way. He didn't want to be laughed at anymore, and he didn't want to be 'good old Humph', the kindly, caring man that the girls passed up in preference for the good-looking but cruel ones, but were happy to lean on once their hearts had been broken. He'd _had_ that – he'd had _years_ of it. He wanted to be taken seriously, just for once.

And – dammit – he just _had_ to go and fall in love with a woman who was in love with a dead man and could _never_ return his feelings.

He wondered, a little desperately, whether he should see this one case through and then ask for a transfer… But a transfer to _what_?

The thought of returning to his old job in London made him cold inside. He supposed he had a solid enough reputation to walk into pretty much _any_ DI vacancy around the English-speaking world – most of the forces would be delighted to take an ex-Met officer - but he was also tired of travelling and constantly trying to create a new life. He wanted to settle – in fact, he very much wanted to settle _here_ , on Sainte-Marie. He had a sense that in coming to this little island, he'd reached some kind of central point in his life – a pivotal moment during which his decisions would have a lasting effect on his future, and not just in terms of his career.

He felt the tension between him and his silent DS increase as she dropped off first Fidel and then Dwayne at their homes. It was telling that she'd decided on that route, as it would have made far more sense to have dropped him at his slightly out-of-town location first. However, she didn't say anything, even after Dwayne said his goodnight and slammed the door shut.

As she stopped outside his house, pulling up the handbrake with an unnecessary degree of force, he broke the silence. "Ok, out with it. You obviously have something to say."

She kept her face averted, staring out of the windscreen as she replied, in a small tight voice. "Why do you insist on pushing yourself so hard?"

"What?" He was a little wrong-footed, having assumed that she was preoccupied with something else.

She shrugged. " _I_ could make that house visit tomorrow. _You_ should be resting your knee."

Suddenly furious for no good reason, he found himself snapping at her. " _Don't_ tell me what I _should_ do. I think I'm probably the best judge of what I'm capable of." He struggled out of the car. "Good night, _Sergeant_ Bordey."

It was a petty reaction, especially since he'd never even _thought_ to pull rank up until now. He supposed he was lucky that she didn't appear to take offence – or at least that she was sufficiently concerned to overlook it on this occasion. She swung out of her side of the jeep and slammed the door.

"I'm _tired_ , Camille. I don't want to talk about whatever it is that's _really_ bugging you right now," he threw over his shoulder as he limped towards the beach house, awkward on his crutches. "Can't we just leave it til the morning?"

She was silent for a moment, as she walked by his side. As they reached the verandah, she moved ahead of him and unlocked the door with her spare key. "I'm _trying_ to help you. That's all."

Her voice sounded odd – quiet and almost sad. It was this that stopped his automatic rejoinder – that he didn't need her help. Again, that would have been petty considering the painful fact that he really _did_.

He propelled himself through the door and sank onto his bed, staring at the floor, his shoulders slumped.

"Do you want something to drink? Tea? Water?" she asked, sounding tentative and unsure.

"No, not really. Help yourself though," he added, belatedly attempting to be the genial host that he normally was.

"No, I…" She broke off and sat down herself, rather more carefully, on a chair near the open door. Looking towards her, he shivered involuntarily. Normally he'd close his door while he slept, even on the muggiest of nights and despite the fact that no one could see in and it was hardly secure. However, he didn't think he'd feel able to tonight.

He slumped into a prone position on the bed, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. Watching the lizards and little bugs and larger spiders flitting in and out of the shadows of the rough wood.

In her chair, Camille was almost unnaturally still, looking odd in her blue hospital scrubs.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "What I said in the car. It was wrong of me. Do you…do you think I don't trust you to investigate alone? Because that couldn't be further from the truth. I _do_ trust you – of _course_ I do. But we normally work better together…don't we? Get better results that way. We complement each others' style, and I thought we also understood each other…"

"We do. I _think_ we do." Her voice was quiet and he moved his head slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye. She was frowning at the floor, her forearms propped on her knees. "Or I thought so, anyway. It's not _that_ …"

It seemed to him that she was trying to make up her mind about something. He looked back at the ceiling, unsure of what to say or whether to deflect her.

"Humphrey…what happened out there? This – _yesterday_ \- morning, I mean. Why did you panic so suddenly on the bike? You were OK before."

He almost laughed out loud at the triviality of the question. That moment on the bike, which had been so embarrassing and so significant at the time, seemed _eons_ ago - and so unimportant now. What did it matter – a physical reaction and a fear of a sexual harassment claim? In the scheme of things, and particularly in the face of death, what did _any_ of it matter?

"I…suppose I must have panicked at the time. I can't remember. It doesn't really matter _now_ , does it? It just happened… I'm sorry about your bike," he added.

She was silent for a moment; he had the strong impression that she was not satisfied with his explanation. "It doesn't matter. I'll get Gustave to run out with his pick-up tomorrow morning and take it to his repair shop. But… well, I suppose you're right. It _doesn't_ matter. Does it?"

"No. It doesn't," he agreed, his eyes on her again.

She shifted a little on her chair. "I'm sorry. You must be tired and I… I know I should go, and I'm tired too. It's not something I can really explain, but…"

Her voice trailed away, but he finished for her. "You don't want to go to sleep yet."

She gave him a quick look, perhaps surprised by his perceptiveness. "We almost _died_ in that boathouse, Humphrey."

He tried to minimise it, as much for his own sake as for hers. "We don't know that for certain. Even if Dwayne hadn't found the pencil, we might have been found by someone else, or -."

"I _know_ it." She cut across his words sharply. "We _would_ have died if they hadn't found us. By the morning, your parents and my mother…well. It just – it makes you think about all the things you leave unsaid. Things you might never get a chance to say…"

He suppressed a sigh. _Richard again_.

"It…" he began, hesitantly. "It probably takes a while to get over these things. You should be easy on yourself for a while. If you feel you need some time off…"

" _No_." She stood up and paced across the floor, restlessly.

He propped himself up on an elbow, watching her. "It's no shame to admit that you need some space, Camille. Not many officers go through a near-death experience and bounce back as if nothing ever happened. I promise it won't reflect on your record in any way -."

"Will _you_?" she challenged him, stopping in the middle of the floor. "Will you take time off to recover?"

He shook his head, trying to avoid her gaze. "No, I really can't – this case -."

She threw up her hands in apparent exasperation. "Then neither will I...if only because you need _someone_ to bang some sense into your head occasionally! Humphrey, why won't you _listen_? You were hurt falling off a bike, got drugged by some unknown substance and then nearly drowned! If _anyone_ needs a break…"

He shook his head, feeling muzzy with tiredness and a little confused. "I don't understand – why do _you_ care whether or not I take care of myself? Why should it matter so much to _you_?"

"Because we're _friends_!" She spread her arms wide. "Or I _thought_ we were, but you seem – I don't know – 'closed off'? What is it that has upset you? You must have been as afraid as I was in that boathouse, so why can't you admit it and deal with it?"

He sat up and glared at her, swinging his feet to the floor. "Hasn't it occurred to you that I _am_ dealing with it, in my own way? What do you want me to do – cry? Fall apart – have some kind of breakdown? _That_ wouldn't help matters much, would it?"

She shook her head, seeming less angry than merely bewildered. "All I know is that you're not the Humphrey I knew this morning. Something happened today…"

"Yeah, so you told me." He got up and limped over to the door, staring out at the sea. "We nearly _drowned_ – remember? _You_ said it – I've been through a lot today. So have you. I should think that would give me enough of an excuse to be a little different – don't you?"

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. "You remind me of... of Richard."

"Oh, _Richard_." He managed to choke out a laugh even as the bitterness burned inside. "I can't imagine _how_. I can't think of two more different people."

She moved towards him quietly. " _He_ did that – what you're doing there. Deflecting. Always trying to hide; trying to avoid any…emotional conflict. And I thought you were different, but…"

"Oh, God, Camille," he whispered, rubbing a hand furiously over his eyes. " _Please_ , I just can't discuss this right now. I'm so damned tired…"

"Of course." Abruptly, she was practical again, no longer trying to bore into the imperfect barriers he had clumsily tried to construct around his heart. "You should rest – I'm sorry I've kept you up."

She took his hand and led him across to the bed; he went with her, mute and unresisting. She pushed him gently down on the bed and pulled off his shoes, pulling a light sheet over him. He closed his eyes, feeling oddly safe under her care. His knee ached but only a little, the pain possibly deadened by exhaustion and emotional turmoil.

As she pulled the sheet up over his chest, she bent close; he could feel the scent of her warm breath on his cheek. " _Please_ don't be like Richard," she whispered in his ear, so quietly he wasn't entirely sure whether or not he was imagining it. "Not you. Not _you_."

And then there was the briefest press of warm lips on his cheek. His eyes opened again, but she was moving away, an indistinct shape against the backdrop of his door.

He closed his eyes and slept.

 


	12. Chapter 12

"OK, chaps. So where are we now?"

Against all the odds, the entire team, including Humphrey and Camille, had put in a reasonably early start at the station on Monday morning. Admittedly, the two senior officers looked rather worse for wear. In the bright morning light, the various cuts and bruises on Camille's face, neck and arms stood out in fresh contrast – testament to the energetic fight she had put up before her hands were tied.

Dwayne winced at the sight. "When I get my hands on them… They'll soon regret laying hands on an officer, trust me on _that_."

"And there was _I_ thinking you were mad because I was a _woman_ ," Camille commented, with a weary smile.

She didn't look as if she'd slept well at all, Humphrey reflected as he looked at her. He supposed she was more unnerved by yesterday's experience than she had seemed – understandably, of course, even if she _had_ gone undercover in the past and found herself in some hairy situations.

He had feared that he would struggle to drop off, but in fact he'd slept like the proverbial log, probably thanks in part to her kindness last night. He blushed when he thought of her putting him to bed – it seemed so _babyish_. He’d feared her reaction this morning, but she’d greeted him with straight-faced professionalism when she’d arrived to collect him at 8.30.

There had been a moment of tension when they had climbed into the jeep and their eyes had met for a long moment before she had looked away quickly and turned on the ignition. And yet another while they were compiling photo-fits of the three men for Interpol and their shoulders had brushed as she leaned over. She had moved away again quickly, as if she had been stung. He hadn't quite been able to hide his wince and when she had looked at him a little later, he sensed that she felt a little guilty about her over-reaction.

He tried to inject some cool professionalism into his behaviour. "Fidel?"

The young officer turned in his chair away from his computer. "I've just e-mailed those e-fits and a description of the drug off to Interpol. It may take a while…after all, this _is_ the Caribbean…"

He didn't need to say any more; everyone knew that drug running was rife in the region and any number of criminals was being pursued. Humphrey nodded.

"Right. Well, Camille and I are going back to that village. Dwayne, you'll check out things with your contacts, see if anyone remembers that man. Fidel, you man the office and push toxicology for the results."

"Can you also arrange for my bike to be towed?" Camille put in.

Fidel nodded. "Sure thing. Oh, by the way, boss, the hospital rang to say they'd sent your blood sample over to Guadeloupe on the morning plane. They can't detect more than a sedative and say you shouldn't have anything to worry about, but they want to double-check."

"OK, thanks." Humphrey looked around at his senior team. They all looked strained, trying to put on a brave face. It was a horrible case – no officer enjoyed investigating the unnecessary deaths of young people – and they'd had an extraordinarily stressful day yesterday. Dwayne still looked furious – he was fond of Camille and angered by her treatment, Fidel had clearly been deeply worried for them both and for the future of the peaceful little island he'd grown up on and loved, and Camille really did _not_ need to be at work today. As for himself, he had to admit that Camille was probably right and he should be manning the desk until his knee was back to normal – or at least less painful – but he had a strong sense that he needed to be out there solving this crime as quickly as possible.

"Look -," he said, "- this is going to be a tough one. We're all going to need a break when it's over, but for now, let's just try to get through the day." He tried not to catch Camille's eye as he spoke. "First of all, we don't want any more victims. I want that drug out of circulation as soon as possible, Dwayne, so work towards that – it's your priority. Take some Specials and get them to circulate descriptions to every bar and club – and make sure they know that _anyone_ can report anything suspicious without repercussions. I'm declaring an amnesty on drug possession until this gang has been apprehended. Let's get going."

His crutch clattered to the ground as he tried to get up; Camille grabbed it and handed it back, her face impassive.

"Thank you." He gritted his teeth as he limped out into the sunshine after his silent DS. Their horribly polite and formal interactions would soon attract the attention of the others, if they hadn't already.

"Straight to the village then, sir?" Camille gave him an enquiring look.

He cleared his throat. They needed to speak, but he didn't have the energy to tackle it right now. His knee was throbbing painfully, which didn't help.

"Not immediately. I think I'd better see the family first."

It was not his favourite task to bother a grieving family, but they needed to know that the senior officer was on the case. She was silent for a minute and then reached over and squeezed his arm very briefly before putting the jeep in gear.  He was cheered beyond all measure by this minor show of solidarity.

The Lawrences had a holiday home in a fairly exclusive neighbourhood up on the cliffs, fifteen minutes' drive outside Honore. It was the kind of area that was eerily quiet out of season, as most of the buildings here were owned by foreigners. Even in season, it wasn't exactly a hotbed of activity, and Humphrey could understand why teenage kids like Emilia and her brother might be drawn to parties in town. Their modern white house was situated at the end of the road – the end of town, literally. Just beyond lay the rainforest. The gardens of the houses stretched out to the edge of the cliff, with a view to the open sea beyond. It was a pretty idyllic situation.

Humphrey shaded his eyes to look up at the house as they got out of the car. "Pretty well off, aren't they?"

Camille nodded; she'd been checking up on them at the station. "He's a retired diplomat, quite a bit older than her – it's a second marriage. He bought the place with his first wife – he was based out here then. That's how Selwyn Patterson knows him – I believe they both worked for the Civil Service and for a while, the first Mrs Lawrence was the Commissioner’s secretary, which is how she met her husband. The wives became friends, the children grew up together, and so on."

"Children…?" He knew that Patterson had two sons, but they were in their late thirties and no longer on the island.

"Yes – from his first marriage." She paused. "It was a tragic accident that killed his wife. Her car went over a cliff – whole thing went up in flames. His sons were about fourteen and twelve then, I think. And they left – he got a transfer back to London. The house was empty for a few years – Maman said she thought he would sell it, but he never did." She eyed the house. "In fact, it stood by itself then - they only put in the new road and built the other houses about fifteen years' ago. And around about the same time, he started coming back again. With a new wife and two young children. Since then, they've been coming over every year. Sometimes it was just the wife and children, or even just Mrs. Lawrence when the children were at boarding school."

"Not his older children?"

She shrugged. "I don't know – if they _do_ come, they keep a low profile."

"And what's the wife like?"

"I'm not sure – I've never met her. All I can tell you is that she's never been involved with the police, not even a traffic offence. She was very young when he came back to Sainte-Marie – I remember Maman commenting on it. She couldn't have been much more than early twenties then, with two small children. He's at least twenty years older than her."

"What about the son – have we ever had problems with him?"

"No, not until now. If he is a habitual user, he's managed to keep it quiet."

"Either that, or it's a recently-acquired habit. What is he – twenty? Can't be any older, I wouldn't think. OK, let's get it over with."

Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence were at home and invited Humphrey and Camille in, although they clearly didn't want to be bothered with questions. Sensing this, Humphrey was cautious in his approach, merely introducing himself, commiserating with them on their loss and assuring them that he was in charge of the investigation. He was deliberately vague about his whereabouts the previous day, merely alluding to being away on another case.

Mrs. Lawrence looked quite a bit younger than her husband, and he could see from which parent Emilia had inherited her fair 'English rose' looks. She was blonde and fortyish, but a well-preserved forty, with natural good looks and very little make-up. He noted that she'd maintained her pale skin very well and suspected she kept well covered up when she went outside. He couldn't tell whether she habitually kept a natural look or whether it was the fact that she was clearly in shock and didn't appear to have slept much.

Her husband didn't look sixty, although he must be at least. He was much darker than her, almost Spanish-looking, but that was evidently an effect of working in tropical climes for many years, as his pale blue eyes gave away the fact that he was also English. There was no sign of their son, but he could see a photograph of the two children on the mantelpiece, and the boy was as fair as his mother and sister. A quick glance showed him that there were no photographs of the first Mrs. Lawrence or the older sons - or at least, he couldn't spot anything likely.

As he eyed the photo of Emilia and her brother, Humphrey reassured them that their son would face no charges, since he'd not been found to be in actual possession, even though he admitted to buying the drug. Although they didn't react to this, he fancied that both parents relaxed just a fraction.

Mr. Lawrence put a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder as he asked Humphrey. "So, what happens now? And is there anything we can tell you that would help?"

Humphrey hesitated. It had been his intention to just pop in and reassure them, but now he asked: "What we _really_ need is to make sure that we have identified everyone who was at that party. We think we have, but there may have been some others who left early. Do you know if any of Emilia's friends were with her?"

The Lawrences mulled this over in silence. Watching them, Humphrey could understand why they had married and why it had lasted, despite the big age gap. They seemed to complement each other – he could tell by the way they glanced at one another that they were silently weighing up the evidence and deciding what might be relevant and what might simply stir up more trouble for their friends. Clearly, the parents of the young people their children associated with would not want to be drawn into something as sordid as drug possession, not unless their evidence could actually be of use.

Mrs. Lawrence broke the silence. "We can give you the names of the two girls that Emilia went into town with. They're based on this estate. But I don't know how much use it'll be. We spoke to them yesterday, and they both said that they'd left Emilia in town. She'd had a call from Eddie and told them she was going to join him at a party. They didn't want to go there, so they went on to a nightclub instead. They didn't hear from Millie again."

"And Eddie would be your son – Edward?"

They nodded. As if she could read Humphrey's next question, Mrs. Lawrence said, "He's not here this afternoon. Nothing sinister, but we didn't think it was a good idea for him to be hanging around, so he's gone out sailing with a family we know. He…he's devastated by what's happened." Her eyes filled with sudden tears. "He loved her so much – we all did. I know – we know he shouldn't have done what he did, but he's not a bad boy, really…"

She broke off, covering her face. Her husband put his arm around her. He was quiet, but Humphrey could see the distress in his face – this was a case of a man who wasn't used to showing his emotions publicly, which didn't mean he wasn't distraught at his daughter's death.

Humphrey stood up. "I am _so_ sorry for your loss – and for bothering you. I promise you I will give this my highest priority. We _will_ bring the people who distributed this drug to justice." He hesitated. "I will have to speak to Edward too, when he's back. And…you do understand that he shouldn't leave the island at present…?"

Mr. Lawrence nodded. "He'll be at your disposal when you need him."

Humphrey nodded. "There's…something else I need to ask. I'm so very sorry, but I'm afraid we must know… To your knowledge, had Emilia taken any illegal substances before?"

They shook their heads vehemently and Mr. Lawrence added: "That's what I don't understand. She hated drugs and I'm quite sure she would _never_ have knowingly taken them. She was very fit, sporty – you know, and she was obsessed with keeping healthy. She never smoked and hardly ever drank alcohol. She was planning on training as a physiotherapist…" His voice faded away.

Humphrey nodded sympathetically. "But Edward – er, Eddie, I mean – he _had_ taken something before? To your knowledge?"

Mrs. Lawrence hesitated before nodding her head, slowly. "I think he must have. Never anywhere near us, of course, but he was arrested a couple of times at university, for possession. Cannabis. And he…" She gave a short laugh. "Put it this way, he parties hard. We try to stop him, but, well – _you_ know – he's twenty now, and you can't keep them in all the time, can you? He knows he shouldn't bring anything this house, and that's the main rule we have. Millie hates it, she's always telling him about the damage he's doing to his body…I mean, she _did_ tell him…" She shook herself, clenching and unclenching her fists. "I'm sorry…I just don't seem to be able to remember that…"

Mr. Lawrence coughed. "Yes, well…if there's anything else?"

When Humphrey answered in the negative, he wrote down the names and addresses of Emilia's two friends and then the couple accompanied them to the door.

As Humphrey shook hands, his heart went out to them. He'd dealt with any number of bereaved parents, particularly during his time at the Met, but he'd never got used to having to telling a mother or father that their child wouldn't be coming home. It must be the most terrible bereavement of all – to lose the son or daughter that you had brought into the world. No one should have to outlive their child.

Part of him wondered if that was why he'd never contemplated parenthood with Sally. Many of the seasoned Met officers had felt the same way – they'd seen first-hand just how vulnerable children and young people were, so why would you want to take the risk of getting your heart ripped out?

As the other girls lived nearby, they walked to their houses. Both girls were home and both confirmed the Lawrences' story – Emilia had received a text from her brother and had left them in town to go to a party. No, they hadn't known where the party was, but Emilia appeared to. They hadn't wanted to go as they'd met a couple of boys they knew and had promised to go onto a club with them. They didn't know who else was going to be at the party apart from Eddie. Humphrey let it go; they clearly didn't know anything of particular use.

Camille was quiet as they got back to the jeep. Recognising that she was in a contemplative mood, he left her to it, concentrating on the scenery instead. His knee was bothering him to some degree, but as long as he kept as much weight off it as possible he felt he could cope.

"He was a bit quiet," she said, eventually. "For someone who'd just lost his child…"

"He's a retired diplomat," he pointed out. "And old-style British. They don't show their emotions, but he certainly felt it…" He paused, thinking it over. "What _did_ strike me as odd was their reaction to their son. I mean, they might be trying to protect him, but you'd think they'd be more upset with him than they seemed to be. After all, if he hadn't brought those drugs in the first place…"

"Yes…" she said, slowly. "That _was_ odd. They seemed to be making excuses for him. That comment about how he was twenty so they couldn't stop him from 'partying hard'…"

"Sounds to me as if he's a little indulged, wouldn't you say? But, even so…his _own sister_ …"

"Mmm," she agreed, "- and that's the other thing. How did she get hold of them? I mean, it looks as if she stole them from his pocket – but _why_? That's a bit odd, isn't it? If she's as anti-drugs as they suggest, why would she do it anyway – and why _now_? And why steal the drugs from him, why not just take them _with_ him if she wanted to experiment?"

"Perhaps she didn't have the confidence to try to buy them by herself. Possibly she didn't have any money on her."

"Mmm, but why take them for the _very first time_ that way?" She frowned as she drove smoothly up through the winding hill road. "I mean, I've never touched them and never wanted to, but if I was going to try, I'd probably want someone with me… Maybe the question we _should_ be asking is…did she _intend_ to take them? Isn't it more likely that she stole them from his pocket simply to stop him from taking them?"

"Good point." He pulled out his phone and dialled the station. "Hi, Fidel. Can you remind me exactly _how_ Emilia Lawrence's body was found? You wrote the report, didn't you?"

He put his phone on loudspeaker, so she could hear Fidel's reply. "Yes, boss. Trouble is, she was moved almost immediately, as they called an ambulance, so I had to get the details from various witnesses…" He paused, and they could hear the keyboard clicking as he pulled up his report; meticulous as always, he didn't want to rely on his own memory of it.

"She was found on the floor in a corner of the lounge, in a prone position. She was partly hidden behind a sofa, which might be why she wasn't noticed sooner. She was dressed in a denim mini-skirt, a cut-off short-sleeved t-shirt and sandals. Her clothes didn't appear to have been interfered with. When the ambulance arrived, they moved her t-shirt up while attempting to resuscitate her; at the hospital, it was cut away." He paused. "She had blood around her nose and mouth and her eyes were open but dilated. She was unresponsive and the paramedics reported that she was probably already clinically dead when they reached her despite the resuscitation attempts. Later, the hospital pathologist estimated the time of death as between 7 and 8AM."

Humphrey hissed out a sharp breath. "When was the last reported sighting of her?"

Fidel paused, and they could visualise him sifting through his notes from his interviews with various party-goers. "The last _definite_ sighting was at around 2.30AM, shortly after she arrived. Her brother introduced her to a friend of his – Benny Haines. They hadn't met before – I think Benny and Eddie know each other from other parties. Benny said she seemed a bit tense – he thought she might be annoyed with Eddie for dragging her along. Eddie joked about Benny keeping her occupied so he could go and 'check something out', Emilia glared at him and stormed off, and Benny didn't see her again. But there's another report from an American girl called Charisse Williams, who seems to have been a bit more with it than the rest. She was standing outside having a smoke when she heard shouting through the window. A massive argument, she thought. She looked through the window and saw a girl matching Emilia's description having a stand-up shouting match with a man. She couldn't see him properly as he had his back to her, but she could say for certain that he was tall, White and fair-haired. She didn't see any more – she was finding the shouting annoying, so she moved away. She thinks that that was around 6.30 or 7, but she couldn't be certain."

"So that's quite sometime later. 4 hours hanging around at a party she wasn't really enjoying… OK, thanks Fidel. One last thing…how did the hospital staff identify that she had taken that specific drug? Did they find traces on her?"

"They found some crumbled ash from a cigarette or joint in her fingers and just inside her mouth, which we sent off for analysis, but to be honest, boss, I think it's more that they recognised the same symptoms."

"OK. Any news from Guadeloupe yet?"

Fidel's silence was telling. "I'll ring again and push them."

"Thanks, Fidel." As he disconnected the call, Humphrey growled, "We have _really_ got to get our own forensics department. It's crazy working like this."

"Who knows, perhaps if you solve this one quickly, Patterson might consider it?" Camille suggested. They had cleared the twisty hill road and were speeding through the open countryside. He couldn't recognise the route, but Camille obviously knew her way back to the village.

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "And that's _another_ thing. How can a police department operate when you've got one person who controls how much money you have and how you spend it? Don't get me wrong – I know he's the Commissioner of Police, but how am I supposed run a service when I have to toady up to that man all the time?"

She was silent for a moment. "He's not so bad."

He laughed incredulously. "Two days ago, I was at a party, feeling extremely uncomfortable but unable to leave because I was worried he wouldn't continue to fund two DS posts."

"And senior officers didn't do the same thing in London?" Her voice was terse. "Are you telling me that you _didn't_ have to go to social events that you didn't enjoy just to creep to someone more senior?"

"Well…" _He_ hadn't, that was true, but the Chief Super had always been moaning about that kind of thing.

"Selwyn Patterson wouldn't do that, anyway," she pointed out. "He's a sensible man and he'd look at the facts. If you can convince him that you need more money for another department, he would find it."

He eyed her curiously; she seemed a little irritated by the turn in conversation. "How well do you know him?"

She shrugged. "Not all that well. I mean, he comes to the bar occasionally, and he's always courteous to my mother."

"And his wife?"

"Even less. She doesn't really come into town these days, and she's often abroad. They say she spends more time with her sons in London or Miami, than she does on Sainte-Marie."

"Do the sons ever visit the island?"

She laughed. "I have no idea! Why the sudden interest?"

"Because…" He paused, frowning. "Because it seems to me that there's so much about mothers and sons in this case. Mrs. Lawrence protecting Eddie. The woman who drugged me and _her_ sons. The first Mrs. Lawrence's two sons and Patterson's two sons – four boys who grew up together and all have left the island, apparently never to return. Maybe, I'm just thinking…oh, I don't know. There's something I'm not seeing here, but…Camille, has it occurred to you that Emilia Lawrence might _not_ have overdosed on that drug? That she might _actually_ have been murdered?"

 


	13. Chapter 13

Camille applied the brake suddenly, and the jeep screeched to a halt. On the whole, it was just as well that there was no other traffic on the road.

She turned and stared at him. "Are you _serious_? You think this was _not_ a case of accidental overdose?"

"It just – it's just something that came into my mind," he said, slowly and a little uncertainly.

This was supposed to be a relatively straightforward case of drug trafficking, albeit one that had gone horrifically wrong for six young people on Sainte-Marie and possibly others elsewhere. Get Interpol to help track down the perpetrators, transfer them to Guadeloupe for trial, get the doctored drug off the market - and job done. It wouldn't be over for the grieving families, of course, but at least it would be one less problem for the under-resourced Honore police force to deal with.

But now? Suddenly, things _seemed_ a little more complicated – and he couldn't entirely explain why. It was an instinct – not based on any really strong facts, although he had a sense that the facts _were_ there, if only he could get them straight in his head…

Or was he simply over-complicating things?

He stared through the windscreen at the empty road ahead of them, glittering in the unforgiving noon heat. It was that dead hour of the day, just before lunch, when the already high temperature began to rise further. The tourists would still be cooking themselves on the beach and regretting it later, but the sensible locals would be heading for the shade of restaurants and bars to have a long, lazy lunch, before heading home to snooze the hottest hours of the day away.

He had to shade his eyes against the glare, and wished for the hundredth time that he could hang on to a pair of sunglasses without losing them instantly. The heat haze hurt his eyes, but it was still better than looking at Camille. He felt unable to meet her eyes, half-fearing the scorn or incomprehension that he might encounter there.

Humphrey was used to getting a certain 'look'. He remembered it from childhood whenever he said something a little unusual that his parents didn't understand; he remembered it from his training days, and from his early days on the force. That " _what is the lad on about now?_ " expression that his friends and colleagues would share with one another, apparently unaware that he could see them.

The 'look' had lessened a bit in Bournemouth, especially after he'd solved that cold murder case, and then had returned to some degree in London, but with a more world-weary and tolerant element to it. And then, here in Sainte-Marie…

Humphrey was well aware that his subordinates found him odd. They were a tolerant bunch here, though, and he'd worked hard to gain their respect. He was pretty sure by now that his senior team of Camille, Fidel and Dwayne would go wherever he led them, but even so, every now and then there'd still be that 'look', even between the three of them.

And, the point was, he couldn't blame them. Humphrey _knew_ he took leaps in logic that others couldn't see and that he somehow could never find the words to explain properly. His mind would carry on springing ahead, from fact to fact, like a mountain goat jumping from rock to rock, even as he tried to slow down enough to explain his reasoning. Distracted by other thoughts, his explanation would come out muddled and he didn't have the time to clarify things.

It would only be at the end of the case, when he would bring all the evidence together. During his first case here, he'd been confused when the team had insisted that he had that excruciatingly embarrassing denouement with all the suspects, but now he could see why. It saved him having to explain it all at the bar afterwards.

So…right now, he wanted to explain his reasoning, but he didn't know if he could _make_ it make sense to Camille, not so early in the investigation. And he dreaded the look that would be in her eyes. The worst of it was that he'd always been able to tolerate the look before – to accept with weary resignation that his methods would never be understood perfectly – but now, and for the first time in his life, he simply couldn't _bear_ to see it. Not from _her_. Never before had it mattered so much for _someone_ to understand him.

And his knee was aching and his head was pounding from the heat and…and he suddenly felt quite ridiculously hungry. He remembered that he'd had practically nothing to eat yesterday and that breakfast this morning had consisted of one Weetabix and a quick cup of tea on the run.

She muttered something French and probably uncomplimentary under her breath, before abruptly swinging the jeep around in the road and heading back down the road again.

"Camille – what are you doing?"

"Finding you a _drink_ ," she muttered. "You look awful and I bet you didn't eat much this morning, did you? I thought not. And, anyway, _I_ need a drink after that. And probably lunch."

And with her usual instinct for finding good places, she took a sharp turn up a steep stony lane through some trees and, after a few minutes, drove out onto a plateau with a panoramic view across farmlands towards Honore and the coast. There was a small, shady-looking café-bar and, within a few more minutes, they were seated under a parasol with icy cold bottles of beer on the table in front of them.

"And before you say anything about drinking and driving -," she warned him severely, "- I intend to soak it up with a large dish of the fish stew that they specialise in here – in fact, it's _all_ they serve here. And so will you. It's delicious."

And she passed him the bread basket with a meaningful look. As he took a slice of crusty bread, two steaming bowls arrived, and as the spicy aroma hit his nostrils, he realised just how hungry he was.

They were appreciatively silent for ten minutes as the crusty bread and seafood bouillabaisse disappeared, the spicy dish perfectly countered by the cold beer. Then Humphrey sighed and leaned back in his seat.

"Thank you. I needed that." He used the last piece of bread to chase the final drop of stew around his plate before cramming it in his mouth.

She didn't say anything about his bad manners, simply gazing out at the beautiful view. "The irony is that I _had_ been planning to bring you here.  Twenty-four hours ago."

He followed her gaze, across tropical green fields made hazy by the heat, towards the far-off outskirts of Honore. From here, he could just make out the pink smudge of the old Residency, where the Commissioner lived.

"Seems longer than twenty-four hours, doesn't it?" he mused.

In truth, he could hardly recall the accident and what had happened prior to it - what he had felt and thought and feared. The events following it had served to make his earlier emotions and fears quite ridiculous and immature. What did it _matter_ , in the scheme of things, if he found his DS dangerously attractive? He no longer feared charges of misconduct, of censure, of expulsion back to London. Which did not mean it was alright to bother Camille with his feelings, he told himself severely. Especially not when she was so clearly still in love with Richard Poole.

He suddenly became aware that she was looking at him quite intently, and he wondered if she really did know what had made him panic yesterday. He flushed at the thought and looked away, digging in his pocket for the handkerchief that was, quite miraculously, there. He mopped his sweaty face and made a point of folding the cloth carefully before putting it away.

"Well – go on, then." Camille was still staring at him with that oddly intent expression. "Amaze me with your deductions about what killed Emilia Lawrence."

He glanced around them – the few people who had been sat at the tables had already departed and the bored-looking waiter was at the bar, a safe distance away. He smiled, a little tentatively. "So, you don't think I've gone completely nuts? I mean, most people…"

She rolled her eyes. "After all this time? Humphrey, between you and Richard, I don't think I'd be really surprised by _anything_ that I'm told by an eccentric British policeman. If you tell me that there's more to this than drug trafficking, I'll listen." She reached out, a little hesitantly, and touched his forearm lightly. "You don't need to convince me," she added, softly. "I'll always have your back – you know that."

"Thank you," he added, quietly, very aware of her fingers on his wrist.

She suddenly seemed to realise that she was still touching him and withdrew her hand quickly, looking oddly flustered for a moment. "There _are_ certain gaps in the story…"

" _There_ – see?" He gestured at her, excitedly. " _You_ can sense it too. It's not just me…"

He began an abortive search of his trouser pockets, but she pre-empted him, holding out a Hello Kitty notebook and pen with just the suspicion of a twinkle in her eye.

Sheepishly, he took them off her, flipped the notebook open and started to scribble. "Let's work out what we already know. Emilia was _apparently_ the sixth person to die from this drug - on Sainte-Marie, anyway - but, _firstly_ , we don't yet know if that's what actually killed her and, _secondly_ , she didn't fit the profile. She hated drugs, was very fit, very body-conscious. She wasn't the type to experiment, and especially not at a party, where she was described by a witness as being tense and unhappy. So…"

He began to scribble as he talked, his writing getting wilder as he went along, underlining certain points with a heavy pencil. After a few moments, he presented the notebook to Camille:

** Why ** **did Emilia leave her friends to go to the party?**

**Why did Eddie invite her to go when he intended to take drugs and must have known she wouldn't approve? Was she as anti-drugs as her parents thought?**

**If she knew what Eddie was going to do and was unhappy/angry/tense, why did she stay at the party for another four hours?**

**Why did she steal the drug? To stop Eddie taking it? If so, how did she end up taking it herself?**

** Did ** **she take it or are we supposed to think she did?**

**Who was she seen arguing with at 6.30/7.00? Eddie or someone else? [If Eddie, he is lying about how he spent the night]**

She stared at the points for a moment, before saying slowly, "I _think_ I can add another question to this. If Eddie is not lying, then exactly _when_ did she get hold of the drug? We know that Benny saw Emilia walking away from Eddie at around 2.30 and we know that Eddie went off to make his little transaction after that – so, let's assume sometime before 3AM. We are then told that, instead of smoking the joint immediately, he put it in his pocket and was apparently distracted by a girl that he may or may not have slept with, but certainly woke up in bed with. That was some time before 8.30, and he found that his joint had been stolen from his pocket. He then wandered around looking for his sister and presumably found her a few minutes later. So…if Emilia was the one who took the joint off her brother, she must have found him at the party again sometime between 3 and 6.30."

"Assuming it _was_ Eddie's joint and not another." Humphrey sighed. "For all we know, Eddie's joint might have been stolen by someone else at the party. But then, assuming Emilia _did_ take it from Eddie for the purpose of stopping him using it, why did she stay at the party after that? Why didn't she simply destroy it and leave?"

"She may have been scared by the neighbourhood – too afraid to leave without him?" Camille suggested.

He frowned. "That's a fair point. But then, she left her friends in the early hours to walk alone to the party when her brother texted her. That doesn't sound much like someone who was intimidated by the neighbourhood or too nervous to be out alone at night. More likely she hung around to try to get Eddie home."

"But what convinced her to go in the first place?" Camille wondered. "From what we've heard about them both, it doesn't sound as if she would enjoy spending time with her brother at a party. Was there something in his text that made her think he was in trouble? And, if so, why would she leave him alone? If she cared enough to go across town, by herself, in the middle of the night, why didn't she try to take him away from the party _immediately_?"

He sighed again. "Too many 'whys'. We need to know exactly what happened during that three-to-four hour period. Either she had the opportunity to take it off him - and perhaps she _was_ going to turn it over to us for investigation, but in that case, why hang around? – _or_ she _didn't_ take it off him at all. Someone else did, but tried to make it look as if _she'd_ taken it. But why would they need to do that?"

"Perhaps they _had_ to," Camille said, quietly. "Perhaps something happened to Emilia and this was a way of passing her death off as a drug-related accident. There's that argument at 6.30 that the witness saw – between Emilia and a tall, blond-haired man. What if that _was_ Eddie – what if they argued and _he_ attacked Emilia…and then panicked and tried to cover up?"

They were silent for a moment, staring at the view as the waiter came to collect their plates. Humphrey was visualising the photograph of Emilia and Eddie that he'd seen in Fidel's file the previous night; the wide grin on the pretty teenager's face, one arm slung casually around her brother's shoulder. And the older sibling's slightly glazed smile as he leaned into his sister's embrace…

"It doesn't fit," he said, slowly. "It wasn't that kind of relationship. He was psychologically weaker than her, I think, even though he was older. He depended on her and she looked after him…and they loved each other, I think. I don't believe he'd be capable of that."

"Not all that many tall blondes at the party," she commented. "It was a party for locals mainly. But there were a few other White people there, and it _could_ have been someone else. So…if not Eddie, then who did she argue with? Can we assume that she was killed by that other man, whoever he was?"

"Another question. And a problem." He explained as she gave him a quizzical look. "The hospital didn't find any obvious injuries. No head injury, and no bruising apart from that caused by their own resuscitation attempts. Which means…"

He saw her eyes widen in understanding.

"Which means that if she _wasn't_ killed by the drug, if she was killed by something else…it wasn't an accidental injury." She frowned, speaking slowly. "She wasn't hit over the head or pushed. She was killed by something more subtle. Perhaps it _was_ a drug, but something guaranteed to kill more quickly and quietly than the joint. An injected substance?"

"And it _also_ means that her killing was planned in advance of their meeting." He took the notebook back from her, and wrote three more questions:

**What happened between 2.30 and 6.30?**

**Who was Emilia seen arguing with at 6.30?**

**What really killed Emilia?**

He looked at this for a moment and then dialled the office.

"Fidel? Sorry, me again. I want Edward Lawrence brought in for questioning later today, as soon as he's back from his little trip. Try to do it subtly, but arrest him if he resists – on a charge of withholding information. We need to know a lot more about what happened at that party. And ask Dwayne to track down that girl that he claimed to wake up in bed with – see what she remembers. Also, I want to hear from the hospital as soon as they know the cause of Emilia's death for certain… Thanks."

He disconnected the call. Camille was looking at him, enquiringly. "So, what do you want to do now? On to the village or back to Honore?"

He ran his fingers through his hair and grimaced. "Let's go on. We've still got a trafficker and attempted murderer to track down."

She nodded at the hovering waiter for the bill. He looked at her, more than a little touched by her faith in him.

"Camille?" But as she looked at him questioningly, he found himself unable to convey what he really wanted to say. "Um…thank you."

The little smile on her face told him that she understood without further explanation. As they returned to the jeep, they were silent but there was a strange sense of peace between them. A shared understanding that there were words to say and issues to be resolved between them, but that the current time was not quite right for that. They were both too focused on the case.

She pulled out onto the empty road again. "You don't think the two cases are related, do you? Was she investigating the traffickers? Maybe that's why she didn't just get rid of that joint – perhaps it was evidence."

"Yes, that had occurred to me too." He sighed, concentrating on the road ahead. " _This_ is about to get _far_ more complicated."

* * *

 

At the village, Mme Josephine was perfectly willing to be helpful. It might have been that she was afraid of being arrested herself. More likely she was afraid for her missing sons – and not _only_ because they were likely to be tracked down by Interpol and arrested and charged with drug trafficking. She found it hard to look Humphrey in the face and addressed her remarks to Camille, speaking in that same mixture of extremely fast French-Creole that he had found oddly soothing last time he was here.

"She never really liked that man," Camille translated for him. "He moved into the empty house over there about six months ago. Called himself Pascal. Her sons first met him while doing some casual labour at the Botanic gardens. He seemed friendly at first, but she knew he wasn't 'local' – he didn't have the right accent. He told her he was from Montserrat and that his mother came from Saint-Marie and he had come back here to try to get in touch with some distant relatives. But she never saw anyone visit him."

"And her sons?"

Camille conferred with the woman again. "He claimed to be a trained gardener – and he did have quite a bit of knowledge, she says. He offered work to her sons. He seemed to have contracts, mostly with rich foreigners to carry out anything from basic maintenance to landscape gardening. They did some work for the Commissioner. She didn't know all that they did, but she does remember that they were there on Saturday."

"Which is where Eddie Lawrence met one of them and set up arrangements for his little transaction. But she must know that it wasn't just gardening they were up to," Humphrey urged, looking at the woman. She continued to avoid his gaze as Camille spoke to her in the same rapid dialect.

The woman hesitated, and he could see she was working out how much to tell them. Camille made a sharp comment and gestured abruptly towards Humphrey; at this, the woman threw him a panicked look and began to talk. He didn't know, but he suspected that his DS had put pressure on the woman by intimating that she would have been an accessory to murder if Humphrey had died yesterday as the result of the drug she had given him.

Camille nodded briskly as the woman poured out her story and asked a few questions, clearly verifying a few points. Leaving her to it, Humphrey moved a few steps away and examined the street. It was just as dead as it had been yesterday – in fact, he wondered how many of the dilapidated houses were still occupied. There was one truck parked nearby, but not the one that he and Camille had travelled in. Limping over to it, he saw that it was empty, but reeked of rotting vegetation.

Camille came and joined him. "First of all, she confesses to giving you a sedative, but it _was_ just that – crushed sleeping pills, the kind you can buy over the counter. And she knows all about the drugs. She doesn't know where Pascal got the cocaine from, but she knows he's been mixing it with a herb that grows in certain places around here." She hesitated. "I didn't recognise the name she gave it – there are lots of traditional local names for these things – but I do know the flower she means. _Calea ternifolia_. It's used in diluted quantities to promote good digestion – I believe Maman occasionally takes it as a tea if she has indigestion, but a very minute amount. It has hallucinogenic properties if taken in large quantities, particularly if smoked."

"I see," said Humphrey, after a pause. "So…added to cocaine…"

"It would enhance the experience. It also, allegedly, helps people to remember their dreams," she added. "And he could dilute the cocaine by quite a bit and the cocktail would still give users quite a buzz."

"But also, in some cases, too much of a buzz," Humphrey commented, dryly. He eyed the house opposite. "Fancy a bit of house-breaking?"

But it turned out that the woman could be helpful in this matter too. She produced her own house key, a chunky affair that appeared to work on the other doors in the hamlet too. In no time, Humphrey and Camille were standing in a darkened, shabby, stone-walled room, contemplating the task ahead of them.

'Pascal' clearly wasn't a tidy man. Dirty mugs and plates lay on top of discarded clothing, and there were piles of paper everywhere and a large box containing dirty gardening tools. The house consisted only of a large living area downstairs with a small kitchen and bathroom at the back and a little staircase leading up to a couple of bedrooms.

Humphrey peered into the kitchen area; the sink was filled with cold greasy water and piled to overflowing with unwashed pans; flies buzzed around them. He wrinkled his nose and stepped back out again, not inclined to investigate the bathroom. Camille had popped upstairs; judging by the nauseated look on her face as she came back down, the upstairs area was no cleaner.

"We'd need a team to go through that lot," she said, gesturing towards the upper floor. "Preferably with bio suits. But I can't see any obvious signs of drugs. I don't think he keeps the cocaine here."

He nodded. "He'll have a factory somewhere. That's where they were taking the so-called 'orchids' yesterday. Basically, he's watering down his cocaine by adding this herb. He must be making a packet producing it here and then shipping it out. And those two kids are siphoning off some of the finished product for their own ends. They're playing a dangerous game... So…what's all this paper, then?"

She flicked through a teetering pile of documents. "Invoices and orders, by the look of it." She picked one up at random and read it through. "I'm not a gardener, but this looks legitimate. I think he must know something about gardening."

"He probably does if he hit upon the idea of using that herb in a drug," he muttered, pulling another large pile of papers towards him. Inevitably, the pile collapsed and fell across the floor with a crash.

Humphrey and Camille looked at each other as the last of the papers fluttered to rest on the grimy floor. She shrugged and turned back to her own pile. "Well, it was already a mess in here. I don't think you could make it any worse."

He grinned. "True. Right then… the big question is, why so much paperwork?"

* * *

 

'Pascal Montefiore' was either extremely indiscreet or just hadn't expected anyone to be going through his belongings. The papers contained some legitimate contracts, and some of them were with names that he recognised – hoteliers, rich landowners, park curators and so on.

There were a fair number of other documents mixed in with the orders and contracts, including a couple of books on botany and a large number of maps of the island, many of them with circled areas and scribbled notations that they couldn't make out. Of his correct identity, they could find no trace, and there were no bank statements. And even with the books and maps, there seemed to be a lot of contracts.

"A lot for six months' work anyway," Humphrey noted, as he laboriously sorted through the papers. He stared at one. "Even one for a banana plantation. Why on earth would he need to provide 'basic landscape maintenance' at a _plantation_?"

She came and looked over his shoulder; his breath stuttered briefly as he caught the warm scent of her perfume before he forced himself to concentrate again. "It's code. It has to be. Look." Her finger pointed at the descriptions on his paper and one that she was holding out, which was for a farm. 'Maintenance' means something else. And, look at the cost. For a large plantation and a medium-sized farm, he's charging the same amount…"

He compared the examples and then pulled out some of the contracts that he had piled up. There were some that looked legitimate and were more specific about the exact work carried out, but for all the more remote locations – plantations, farms, swathes of privately-owned land - it was exactly the same contract. Same description, same amount.

"I don't think these are contracts at all," he said, slowly. "Or rather, they _are_ , but not in the same way. They're not paying _him_. He's paying _them_." He looked at Camille. "Did you say that that flower was commonly grown?"

She frowned. "Yes - and no. It doesn't grow wild, but it tends to grow as a weed in cultivated ground. I don't know how well it grows on other islands, but I don't _think_ it's very common. Maman buys small amounts from a street trader and he told her once that he does very well out of buyers from Guadeloupe who stock up on it. And you can't very easily go out and pick it – not without trespassing onto private land."

"So it grows in the type of ground found around farmland and plantations." He looked back at one of the contracts. " _He's_ paying _them_ for removal of the herb. He probably tells them that he sells it as a traditional medicine to other parts of the Caribbean – they wouldn't necessarily know it was being used to produce illegal drugs. And, judging by these and the amount of land covered, he's buying it very cheaply too."

She turned back to yet another pile of papers. "That suggests that what he told Mme Josephine might be at least partly true. He obviously knows the island, either because he spent time here in the past or his family really does come from here. He must have known that the herb was available here in big quantities. If only we could find out who he _is_. There must be _something_ here that gives it away…"

They worked on in silence for another ten minutes, before Humphrey muttered a curse and abandoned his search. "I don't think we're going to find it here. He's rubbish at filing, admittedly, but he's got enough sense not to leave anything that'll give his identity away. There's nothing here that'll prove _anything_."

"Except possibly this." Her voice was a little muffled; she had moved away from him to check something that had been poking out from under a manky threadbare sofa. Her back was to him and she was holding a black leather document holder in her hands.

He limped over to her. "What is it?"

She turned slightly, so he could see the contents of the unzipped holder. It was crammed with notes – at a glance, he would say that there was at least ten thousand Euros in there. But Camille wasn't interested in that. She had pulled out a creased cheque and was holding it in his direction.

He whistled at the amount. "A hundred and fifty thousand in US dollars. He's doing pretty well out of this, isn't he?"

" _Humphrey_ ," she insisted, her voice stilted. " _Look at the signature_."

His gaze lowered to the signature line and his heart sank as he saw it. It was a flowing signature that he knew very well, almost better than his own, from any number of directives and expenses agreements and salary cheques.

Selwyn Patterson.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Humphrey took the cheque from Camille and stared at Selwyn Patterson's signature.

"But that's _impossible_ ," he murmured.

Camille passed a hand over her face, looking a little stunned. "Well, if _that_ is what it looks like, it is finally proof that _no one_ is incorruptible."

"You can't possibly believe that the Commissioner is in _this_?"

" _Truthfully_?" She turned her dazed face to his. "Humphrey, I don't know _what_ to believe any more. He is a wily man and a manipulator, that is true – but _this_?" She shook her head. "There _has_ to be a mistake. I know Patterson well enough to be confident that he would _never_ be involved in the drugs trade – or any crime. He's a good man – honourable, law-abiding. He always has been."

He nodded towards the stacks of papers. "You haven't found anything relating to his office or the Residency?"

"Not yet…" She looked at the papers without enthusiasm.

"There has to be something that explains _this_." He stared at the amount - $150,000 was a _heck_ of a lot of money, and he couldn't think of any legitimate reason why Patterson needed to pay this much money to a lowly gardener.

"It might not be what it seems," Camille said, suddenly. "What if…what if he broke into Patterson's office during that party and stole a blank signed cheque?"

"Surely the Commissioner wouldn't be foolish enough to leave blank cheques lying around?"

"OK… well then, maybe he forged the signature?"

"It's a possibility." Suddenly, he was sick of the dirty little house and the eerily quiet village. His knee was throbbing and he was guiltily aware that he'd spent far too long standing on it against his doctor's advice. "Look, let's just box the whole lot up and take it back to the station. Perhaps Fidel will be able to work his magic and find something."

"Ye-es," she said, slowly. "Although…don't you think it would be better to give Patterson a chance to explain this before Dwayne and Fidel find out? It wouldn't do any good for them to think that he's guilty of anything. After all, he _is_ their boss."

"And _yours_ ," he pointed out. "And mine too, come to that. Well, let's box it up anyway and we can decide when we get back to Honore. I want to catch up with the others and see where we are with the other strands of the investigation."

* * *

 

The team kept a pile of folded crates in the back of the jeep for the purpose of removing large amounts of evidence. Humphrey and Camille emptied the house of all the paperwork, and Humphrey put the wallet containing the Euros and Patterson's cheque in his inner jacket pocket. He risked his bad knee on the rickety stairs to check the cramped little bedrooms upstairs but although it was clear that one room at least was in use, he had no better luck than Camille. In the end, he gave up and stuck police tape across the door once it had been relocked by Mme Josephine. Not that _that_ would stop the criminals, but he hoped that it would be enough to keep curious kids out of the house.

He checked his watch as they drove out of the village, and was shocked to see that it was already 3PM. "We were there longer than I thought."

"How are you feeling? Tired?"

"Actually, _no_. Not too bad." He was surprised to realise that it was true. The exertions of yesterday and the lingering traces of the sedative would certainly catch up with him at some point, but at the moment, he felt able to carry on with the investigation. His knee was a bit of a problem, but there were ways around that.

She glanced at him. "Case adrenaline."

"Yes, you're probably right. We'll be paying for it soon."

"Mmm…" She focused on the road for a few minutes. "Do you want to go back to the station or to see the Commissioner first?"

He sighed. "I can't help feeling these two cases are linked in some way… Well, the Commissioner will have to wait for now. I want to get back to the office."

They continued in silence for about ten minutes - Camille concentrating on the road and Humphrey contemplating the scenery. There was more traffic on the road now; generally business picked up after 3PM when the sweltering temperatures began to drop a little.

As they entered the outskirts of Honore, Camille broke the silence. "Humphrey, I… I wanted to apologise for what I said yesterday. It was wrong of me to interfere."

Her voice was a little stilted and Humphrey glanced at her, surprised. She focused on the road, not meeting his eyes.

"It's OK - _really_. You were concerned about me, that's all. It's just that…well, I know I come across as quite incapable of looking after myself, but -," he laughed, deprecatingly. "- I wouldn't have got as far as I have without having _some_ sense."

"I didn't mean to suggest that you couldn't look after yourself."

"I know – and I _will_ take a rest when this is over. We'll _both_ take a couple of days' sick leave, because I'll bet those bruises of yours are a bit sore too. And _that's_ an order," he added quickly, as she opened her mouth to object.

She paused, her mouth curving into a rueful smile. "OK. You've got me there, _Sir_."

He smiled and then sighed wistfully. "A quiet day in a hammock with a couple of beers and absolutely nothing to do sounds just _wonderful_ right now." He glanced at Camille. "You could – um… you could join me? If you like."

The pause was just a little too long for his pounding heart. Eventually, she answered, quite calmly. "Thank you, Humphrey. I _would_ like that."

"Great, that's…great… Well…" They were just pulling up outside the police station, and he fought to refocus his mind on the matters at hand. "Let's see where we're at with _both_ investigations."

Fidel was at his desk and looked up as Humphrey and Camille came in. "Sir, I was just about to contact you. The toxicology results have come through. The samples on the first five victims contained a cocktail consisting of cocaine and a herb grown on the island -."

"Let me guess," Camille broke in. " _Calea ternifolia_ , am I right?"

Fidel looked startled, but nodded. "Yes, that's right, and they said the combination might not cause a fatality in around 95% of cases, but that it carried a higher risk of sudden cardiac death in an unlucky few. It just depends. So, it's probably been circulating for a while and the deaths are only just starting to trickle through to our attention. But here's the _really_ interesting thing. Emilia Lawrence was _not_ killed by the same combination. She was killed by a speedball – a high-dose combination of cocaine and heroin. The pathologist thought it was probably administered intravenously, so I phoned the hospital and asked them to check for puncture wounds. And they found one – in her upper right arm. They didn't spot it before, because it was hidden beneath a scar from a recent burn.  A cigarette, they think."

"An attempt to disguise it?" Humphrey wondered. "What about the traces of the drug found in her mouth?"

"They were placed there after her death – confirmed by the fact that she hadn't inhaled any of that drug." Fidel paused. "There's something else. Speedballs have a higher risk of sudden cardiac death, but it's usually delayed. The cocaine's stimulant effects wear off more quickly than the heroin's depressive effects – and it's the heroin in isolation that is the greatest risk, as it's too easy to accidentally overdose on heroin while the cocaine is masking the effects. So, what _that_ means is that she could have taken the drug some time before she actually died."

"We _did_ wonder about that four-hour gap between 2.30 and 6.30," Camille murmured.

"True." Humphrey looked around as Dwayne walked into the office. "OK, listen up. It's likely that Emilia Lawrence's death was a case of murder or manslaughter rather than an accidental overdose. We need to build up a picture of what happened at that party – who she spoke to, who approached her, whether her brother saw her alive after 2.30 and, in particular, who the man was that she was seen arguing with at between 6.30 and 7.00. Let's get another interview with Charisse Williams, that American girl who overheard them – see if she can remember anything else. We know that he was tall and fair-haired. It may have been her brother…"

"We're bringing him in shortly," Dwayne confirmed. "He's out sailing, but we radio'ed the owner and he expects to be back at 4. I'll be there to meet him and bring him straight here."

"Thanks." Humphrey limped over to his desk; his knee was starting to bother him again. "Damn. I really must elevate this and get some ice on it."

"Bit late for that," Camille muttered, but she walked into the staff kitchen, where there was a small fridge-freezer, and returned with a frozen gel pack and a tea towel. Humphrey was soon sitting down with his leg propped up and a cold pack wrapped around the swollen knee.

Under his instruction, Fidel and Camille pulled the noticeboard out of its usual corner and started sticking photographs, arrows and notes on it. When Dwayne returned with Eddie Lawrence, they quickly turned it to face the wall, so he wouldn't see his own photograph in a prominent position in relation to his sister's.

Humphrey took an instant dislike to Emilia's older brother. Eddie was a sullen-looking young man, his delicate good looks marred by the apparently permanent expression of dissatisfaction on his face. Not a patch on Emilia, he couldn't help but think, and had to remind himself that this young man had suffered a very recent bereavement. With that in mind, he hid his personal feelings behind a kind smile and indicated the chair on the other side of his desk.

"Take a seat – and forgive me for not getting up, but I need to keep the weight off my knee. I'm sorry to have to bother you, but we need to fill in a few gaps in our understanding of the party where your sister lost her life. I'm terribly sorry about that, by the way."

"Of course." Eddie sat down a little warily. "If I can help, I will, but I really don't remember that much about Saturday night."

"Well, let me take you a little further back. In the afternoon, you went to a party at the Old Residency, is that right?"

The young man wrinkled his nose. "Dad dragged us along, because the Police Commissioner is one of his old friends. It was pretty boring – in the end, I got a friend of mine to ring me so I could make an excuse to leave."

"Yes, but before you did, you made a connection, didn't you?" Humphrey watched Eddie's face carefully. "You met a man who promised to sell you cocaine. There's no point in denying that, because we already know you bought something at the other party. But you met the seller at the Residency party, didn't you? Do you know his name?"

Eddie hesitated for a moment, looking worried. Camille broke in, soothingly. "We know that it was one of two brothers, either Daniel or Antoine Le Fondre. All you have to do is confirm that. You're not revealing anything that we didn't already know."

"Daniel," Eddie muttered, quietly. "He said his name was Daniel."

Humphrey and Camille exchanged glances. Daniel was the older of Mme Josephine's two teenaged boys, old enough to be tried as an adult, so this identification was bad news for him. Drug possession and supply carried a potential sentence of up to fifteen years, and that was assuming he was arrested _before_ he came to harm at the hands of the man that he and his brother were currently travelling with. If their boss discovered that they'd been siphoning off the drugs to sell them privately, Humphrey didn't fancy their chances.

"OK, so you arranged to meet Daniel at your friend's party to buy the drug. Who was the friend – Benny Haines?"

"It wasn't at his house – it was someone he knew." The boy sounded uncomfortable. "You know how it goes – you hear about these parties from someone else…"

"But you must have known where it was before you left the Residency, because you arranged a meeting time with Daniel."

"Yeah, OK, it was a friend of Benny's. I hadn't been there before, but Benny knew where it was."

"OK. So you left the Residency - when?"

"About five-ish."

"And you arrived at your friend's party at what time?"

"Not until gone midnight…  About half past, I think."

It was like drawing blood out of a stone. "So, what did you do between 5 and 12.30?"

Eddie shrugged. "Not much. Mooched around a bit. Met Benny. Hung out down at the harbour. Went to a couple of bars."

"Did you see Emilia before the party?"

"No, she was with Mum and Dad at the Residency. When I saw her at the party, she told me they’d gone home not long after I left. And then she went out with her friends for the evening, and they were in town, but I didn't see them. There's lots of bars along the strip."

"True." Humphrey glanced down at the file, open on his desk, although he didn't really need to. "So, you didn't see Emilia until she arrived at the party – according to Benny's testimony, that was around 2.30 in the morning."

The boy gave a jerky nod of assent.

"And Benny says you argued." Humphrey looked at Eddie. "Or at least, you said something that annoyed her and she walked away."

Eddie looked at his hands. "I didn't mean to upset her. It's just she… she was just so _judgemental_ , you know? I do – I _did_ – love her, but I hated the way she followed me around, trying to take control of my life. I couldn't get away from her – especially not here. It was easier at home, when I was away at Uni, but they kicked me out last term because of the drugs. And she was always _nagging_ me, telling me that I was ruining my life, trying to get me to go to rehab… Even at the party, trying to get me to go home straightaway…"

Humphrey frowned. "But then, _why_ did you invite her to join you?"

Eddie looked confused. " _Invite_ her? I _didn't_. I wasn't expecting her to turn up. I didn't realise she even knew that part of town."

Humphrey glanced at his notes again and shared a glance with Camille. "According to the friends she was out with, she received a text message from you, which is why she left them to go to the party."

Eddie shook his head, vehemently. "Well, it wasn't from _me_. They must have misunderstood. She'd be the _last_ person that I'd invite to that kind of party."

Surprisingly, Humphrey believed him. There was an air of shame about this oversized child. It was clear that he was beginning to feel a little responsible for his sister's death – as well he might if this had been a simple case of an accidental drugs overdose. However, that seemed increasingly unlikely.

He asked, "Did anyone use your phone while you were there? Is there any chance someone could have texted her and she might have thought it was you?"

"Well, I didn't lend my phone to anyone. Someone might've nicked it, but then why would they go to the trouble of putting it back in my pocket?"

"Eddie," Camille asked, urgently. "Did Emilia _tell_ you why she was there? Did she say someone had arranged to meet her there?"

Eddie paused to consider before shaking his head. "She didn't say and I didn’t ask.  I'd arranged to meet Daniel between 2.30 and 3.00 to make the deal, and she’d interrupted me. I was feeling tense about that, and I wanted to get rid of her – not in _that_ sense -," he added, hurriedly, "- just I didn't want her to see what I was doing.”  He paused again, frowning.  “I remember... Benny was there, and when I introduced them, I _think_ I might have made some stupid comment about Benny keeping her occupied while I… well, I didn't say exactly, but I implied I would be getting some drugs. I hoped that she'd be disgusted enough to leave the party. She did walk away, but not before saying that she wouldn't be leaving. I made my meeting with Daniel and bought the joint off him – I wasn't expecting it to be a joint, but he said it was something special. After that, I was looking around for a quiet spot where I wouldn't be interrupted, so I could try it. I went into the lounge, but I thought I saw Emilia, so I backed out again. And then I bumped into a girl I know. I've slept with her once or twice, kind of casually – _you_ know - and she's usually good for a bit of a laugh. She was smoking pot, so we shared a joint and a bottle of wine and then went upstairs to one of the bedrooms." He paused, not quite meeting Humphrey's eyes. "I passed out and didn't wake up until about 8.00 in the morning."

Humphrey looked at Camille again and could see his own astonishment mirrored in her eyes. What a piece of work this Eddie Lawrence was! Not only had he left his sister alone at an unsavoury party, he'd actually sought to avoid her, hiding away from her by getting stoned and drunk and having casual sex with a girl who was 'good for a laugh' as he put it.

"So, what made you go looking for her in the morning?" he asked, quietly. "You must have thought she'd given up on you and left, surely?"

"Dunno," the boy muttered, looking anywhere but directly at his interrogators. Either he sensed their disgust at his behaviour or, quite possibly, he was feeling a healthy dose of it himself. "Just had a feeling, that's all. Dunno, really."

"Did you go straight to the lounge? I mean, you didn't try any of the upstairs rooms first or anything?"

"Yeah." Eddie looked a little startled. "Yeah, I did. Don't know why really." He paused, seeming to ponder the question. "I guess it was the last place I saw her, or thought I did, so maybe it was subconscious…"

"When you found her… was she alone? Do you remember seeing anyone else near her?"

The boy paused again, frowning. "I don't think so… I mean, there were a few people passed out around the room – you know. A couple on the sofa, someone on a chair, and someone else slumped over on the floor by the door. I remember I had to step over him."

"And you didn't recognise anyone in particular?" Humphrey persisted.

"I can't be totally sure. I mean, I saw her… I saw her hair down by the side of the sofa, so I was focused on that. And then, when I walked around the sofa and saw her properly…" He swallowed, looking close to tears. "I shouted for help, and then the next thing I knew, there was a girl calling an ambulance, and some bloke I didn't recognise was bending over her, trying to give her the kiss of life. But he said it was hopeless, that she'd already gone. And then the paramedics arrived and they tried too…"

His voice trailed away and he ran a hand over his eyes.

"I'm really sorry, Eddie," Humphrey murmured. "I know this is difficult. Do you want a drink of water?"

"No, it's OK," the young man muttered, not looking at him. "Was there… was there anything else you needed to know?"

"Just one thing. Did you see _anyone_ at the party that Emilia might have known? Any friend, or anyone you'd seen her talking to in the past?"

He shook his head. "No, not that I recall…but then we didn't exactly move in the same circles." Was it his imagination, or was there a degree of bitterness in Eddie's tone?

"And was there anyone there that you didn't _expect_ to see? Anyone who wouldn't normally have been at one of those parties?"

"Apart from Emilia, you mean? I didn't see anyone unusual. She's the only one who stood out."

Humphrey was about to tell him that he could go when Camille, who'd been frowning in contemplation, suddenly spoke. "Just one more thing, Eddie. You said that shortly after you made your transaction with Daniel, you saw Emilia in the lounge – or you _thought_ you did. What did you mean by that?"

Eddie gave her an odd look. "I meant exactly that. I didn't see her clearly because it was pretty dark in there, but I saw her hair." He pulled an ironic face. "There weren't all that many white people there and we were the only two with _really_ blond hair."

"So you identified her by her head?" Camille checked, and when Eddie nodded, she raised an eyebrow at Humphrey. "Are you _certain_ it was Emilia's head you saw? It couldn't have been someone who was taller, for example?"

"No…well - that is, it _might_ have been." Eddie looked confused. "I don't _think_ I gave it much thought at the time. Just saw a flash of blond hair and thought I'd better get out of there before she saw me."

Seeing that Camille had no further questions, Humphrey nodded at Eddie. "OK, thank you. You can go now, but we may need to talk to you again, so stick around, please. No flying home or anything."

"As if I could," the boy muttered, as he stood up. He hesitated, looking down as his feet as he spoke again. "Look – I know what you think of me. You're probably right. But you just try living up to 'little Miss Golden Girl' and see what it does to _you_." He pushed his floppy fringe out of his eyes. "I know my parents wish it was me lying on that slab and not her."

And with this passing shot, he left the station.

Humphrey whistled when he was gone. " _Not_ much of an older brother." He thought of the photograph, taken only a couple of days' ago - of the younger sister's protective gesture towards her brother, and of the way the two leaned into each other. Had it all been an act – had Eddie resented his sister all along?

"He seemed to imply that his parents favoured Emilia," Camille commented.

"Maybe they did…although his mother seemed quite fond of him. Perhaps his father was fonder of her because she was his only daughter while Eddie was just his third son." Well, Humphrey knew how _that_ felt – being constantly compared unfavourably with one's siblings. He frowned. "No photos of the older sons at their house. Weird that. Is he estranged from them? Do we know anything about them at all? Fidel…"

"Onto it, boss."

As the young officer worked his magic on his computer, Humphrey leaned right back in his chair, resting his head on the backrest and staring up at the ceiling.

"So…if Eddie didn't text Emilia, who did? And why did she tell her friends it was from her brother? It sounds as if she received a message from his phone and assumed it was him – but how was it done?"

"And who was the man who tried to resuscitate Emilia? And the woman who phoned the ambulance?" Dwayne said, unexpectedly.

They all turned to look at him. He shrugged at the sudden close attention.

"Well, he's spent the night at a party where it looks as if everyone got drunk or stoned or both. When he goes into the lounge, everyone's passed out on the sofa or the floor. Not surprising. So, if you're sleeping off whatever you took the previous night, why would you suddenly wake up and _immediately_ be able to carry out resuscitation? I don't think _I_ could. And if you _were_ that competent – and I don't think anyone at that party was – you still wouldn't be clever enough to know that she'd already died. You'd keep trying. Only a doctor or paramedic would know for certain that it was 'hopeless'. And what about the girl? She's also on the scene very quickly with her phone."

"Hmm." Humphrey thought about it for a minute. "It's a good point - worth following up. Find out if the girl identified herself to the ambulance service and if they remember a man trying to help Emilia when they arrived."

As Dwayne went to ring the ambulance services, Fidel looked up from his computer. "No big mystery about the older sons – no changes of name or anything. Julien Lawrence is a city trader and his younger brother Joshua is a freelance investigative reporter. Julien is married with two children. Joshua isn't – I can't find anything about his private life anyway, and he wasn't cohabiting in the 2011 census. They both live in London."

"No scandals? Anything particularly newsworthy?"

"Well, Julien has never been accused of any _specific_ wrong-doing, but he does work for Barclays Bank, and they have been criticised for their unethical behaviour. Joshua is more visible online on account of his job. He writes mainly about financial fraud – bit ironic given his brother's job. Looks like the brothers took very different directions in life."

As Dwayne put the phone down, he was about to speak when it rang again. He answered and listened for a moment before looking around at Humphrey.

"Boss? It's the Commissioner's office. Patterson wants to see you as soon as possible. He says it's urgent."

 


	15. Chapter 15

The Old British Residency in Honore was a large, white Georgian-style townhouse with all the features of that era – pillars supporting ornate fasciae, terraces and balconies running around each floor, and a large stone staircase to greet visitors at the front door. It stood within substantial and quite beautiful gardens, which were designed to represent a number of styles. There was a large kitchen garden, and a little English garden, and various tropical gardens, all bordered by well-kept lawns and gravel paths.

The building had been built by an English plantation owner who was later granted governorship of the island by King Charles II and made it his official residence. The governorship had passed through his family until the French took control of the island – at that point, the building was abandoned and fell into disrepair. When the British reclaimed Sainte-Marie, the island's Governor lived in a more modern and rather less grand residence – presumably one that cost the taxpayer a little less to maintain. The Old Residency, as it became known, passed through various private owners, growing more and more dilapidated until the early 1970s, when it was bought by a brash young businessman called Selwyn Patterson.

Patterson wasn't unknown to the locals. He was the son of a senior civil servant, although he had been moved from the island in early childhood when his father was called to serve in the diplomatic service in Britain. The father never returned to his home island, but the son did. He acquired the crumbling residency at a bargain place and set about restoring it to its former glory.

Local gossip suggested that he was going into the luxury hotel business and that the Old Residency would be the first of many projects, so it'd been a surprise when he'd moved in to it himself. Later, it became his family home. He became a senior civil servant with responsibility for regional business development and then Police Commissioner. In these posts, he wasn't entitled to an official residence, but the Old Residency certainly came in useful for official parties. Popular rumour had it that he was positioning himself to take over governorship when the current incumbent, an elderly Englishman, retired. He would be a popular choice as the islanders would much prefer to be governed by one of their own.

Although Humphrey didn't much enjoy having to court Patterson's good favour in order to get the additional resources he wanted, he quite liked the Commissioner on a personal level. Any scandal would not be good for the man's reputation and would certainly put an end to any political ambitions he might have. At the same time, he was not prepared to overlook any criminal activity, even if it put him at odds with his team. It was an awkward situation, and he prayed that the Commissioner would be able to explain the matter satisfactorily.

They were ushered into his home office by his PA. Patterson stood and came around his desk towards them, smiling broadly.

"Detective Inspector! And Sergeant Bordey too! I am glad to see you. Will you join me for tea? I was about to have some."

Humphrey paused; the words and the smile seemed a little at odds with the phone requesting an urgent visit. However, the PA was still present, and it was possible that the Commissioner wanted to keep the matter private. He assented and then followed Camille and Patterson through some French doors onto the shady ground-floor terrace.

It was pleasantly cool on the terrace; the wind blew in gently from the sea and rustled through the leaves of the bougainvillea that climbed the pillars. Patterson made pleasant small talk while tea was served along with a selection of sandwiches and scones. The tea was refreshing, and Humphrey found himself wondering whether Richard had ever joined Patterson for tea. It didn't sound as if Richard had cared for the man much and it would be just like the wily old Commissioner to conveniently 'forget' his DI's passion for tea, so he rather doubted it. Camille was looking around with interest as if she'd never been here before.

The view was pretty impressive. The Residency was situated on a rise about the main town.  Beyond the gardens and the white wall marking the boundary, they could see boats bobbing in the harbour and the beautiful bay beyond.

"I can see why they built it here," he mused.

Patterson smiled. "It can be useful to see the comings and goings."

He glanced over his shoulder. Having poured the tea, his butler had disappeared back through the French doors. Immediately, the genial smile dropped from his face.

"I must admit I was expecting you to call earlier today. First of all, may I say how _very glad_ I am that you survived your ordeal yesterday with relatively minor injuries." He glanced at Camille, clearly noting the bruises on her face. "Not that I in any way minimise the severity, and I do hope you will take some time to recuperate. But you are not here to discuss _that_. You are here about Emilia Lawrence."

Humphrey glanced at Camille. "Possibly, yes. But actually there was something else that we needed to discuss."

Without any preamble, he removed the wallet from his pocket, opened it and retrieved the cheque, holding it out to the Commissioner.

After just a fraction's hesitation, Patterson took it from Humphrey's fingers, flattened it out on the table and looked at it, his face impassive.

"We – er – we found it in the house of the man who abducted us yesterday. Can you explain how he might have come by it, Sir?"

Patterson was silent for a moment. Lifting his gaze from the cheque, he looked out over his well-tended grounds. Humphrey and Camille watched him, silently.

Eventually, he spoke. "Yes, I can." He looked intently at each of them in turn. "It is, however, an extremely awkward matter, and I would appreciate your discretion."

Humphrey coughed. "Of course – but you _do_ understand that if there is anything that is likely to come up in a court case, I would have no choice but to reveal it? This man _is_ a drug-runner."

"Of course, of course." Patterson waved a hand dismissively – as Police Commissioner, he probably hadn't expected anything else. "First of all, if this _is_ the same man – and I did not realise that, or I would certainly have told you earlier – I can tell you who he is. His name is Ernest Nieto and he's originally from Guatemala. He used to work here, on Sainte-Marie, for an American businesswoman by the name of Jessica Law. I can assure you that I knew nothing about the drug running…although I should not be surprised, knowing what I do of the man."

Camille frowned. "Jessica Law? The name sounds familiar… Doesn't she run the Arcadia hotel chain? I think we've had her in on speeding charges once or twice."

Patterson inclined his head. "The very same Ms. Law. Nieto was her estate manager and general right-hand man. I imagine they fell out at some point, or he did something that was bad enough to make her sack him. This was some years ago, and he left Sainte-Marie and fell off the radar. I had taken note of that, because I was Deputy Police Commissioner by then, and he was suspected of having been involved in some petty criminal activities – just on the periphery, you know, and not quite involved enough to build up a case against him. I was relieved when he left the island and assumed he had returned to his home country… And quite possibly he _did_ for a while. Anyway, he had not been to Sainte-Marie since, as far as I knew, so it was quite a shock as you can imagine seeing him _here_ – in my office – two days' ago."

He paused, taking a delicate sip of his tea before continuing. "He was dressed as a gardener – I sometimes contract in extra staff to work on the gardens, particularly at this time of year. I asked him what he was doing in my office, but even as I did so, I recognised him." The Commissioner smiled, ruefully. "He knew certain… facts… and he wanted money to stay silent. Quite a lot of money."

"And you gave it to him?" Camille sounded incredulous. "Forgive me, Sir, but surely you must have been concerned that he would come back for more?"

The Commissioner sighed, rubbing his forehead. "If the blackmail had been aimed at me _alone_ , I would have refused immediately. I can survive any amount of so-called scandal. However, it was aimed at some very good friends of mine… I didn't intend for the cheque to go through the bank – it was just a way of getting him out of the office and buying some time to talk it through with those affected. But then, when I heard what happened to Emilia yesterday, I feared I was too late."

Humphrey put down his cup and leaned forward. "Does this blackmail concern the Lawrences?"

Patterson paused again, but Humphrey didn't push. He could sense that the man was struggling with some kind of decision.

Eventually, the Commissioner pushed back his chair and stood. He moved across the terrace to lean on the white railings. "What I have to tell you…remains _here_. You understand? _Not_ because of my reputation -," he added, giving them a stern glance. "- but because the safety of certain individuals might be compromised. Is that clear?"

Humphrey met his eyes unflinchingly. "I can't make any absolute assurances, Commissioner. It depends on what you have to tell us… But I will do my utmost to respect your privacy. You have my promise."

The Commissioner seemed to accept this. He nodded and rubbed his face again. Humphrey noticed that he remained at the rail, his face in profile, as if he would rather not look at them as he told his story.

"When I became a civil servant… _No_." He stopped and smiled slightly. "No, I find I must go back even further. I was the son of a diplomat, and I spent much of my childhood in Britain. I left here when I was six. You can imagine the culture shock! I am not just referring to the change in temperature. I can tell you that the Britain of the 1960s was _not_ the most accepting of societies for a young black boy. Of course, at my young age, most of the implications bypassed me, but I was still aware that it was considered unusual for my father to be as rich and as powerfully connected as he was."

Watching the self-assured Patterson as he leaned on the rail, taking in the spoils of a deeply successful life, Humphrey found it hard to imagine him as a small nervous Caribbean boy in racist 1960s Britain, but he could tell by the dark tone in the Commissioner's voice that there were many tales he could tell about that experience.

"Later, I was sent from my father's home to board at Harrow, and as so many of the sons of foreign-born diplomats were also there, I did not fare so badly. I was an only child and my mother did not come to Britain, but at school, I made friends. I cannot – from this distance, I don't think I can convey the sense of – of camaraderie that one experiences in such a situation. Far from my home island, living in a largely hostile country, with a father who was distant enough that he might as well have been on the other side of the world… You develop friendships – and certain _entitlements_ \- that stay with you for life."

Humphrey noticed that, as he emphasised the word 'entitlements', Patterson's fingers clenched tightly around the railings.

"While I was at Harrow, I made two such friendships in particular. One was with Clive Lawrence – he was the son of a diplomat like me, except his parents were white and English, and therefore far more socially acceptable. The other was with another white boy called Jonathan Masters. He was the son of a wealthy city banker, and from a completely different background. Still, the three of us remained firm friends throughout our school days.

"I lost touch with Clive after school – he went to Cambridge to study law. I was destined for Oxford, but I rebelled." He smiled, reminiscently. "My parents had recently divorced and, as a young black man in the early 1970s, I rejected all that my father stood for. I determined that I would have nothing to do with the racist country I found myself living in – I rejected the politics and the culture of the British government and her institutions. I aspired to be a self-made man. I would take none of my father's 'tainted' money and I would return to Sainte-Marie to make something of myself. As you can see, I was an ambitious eighteen-year-old!  I worked hard – started out working as a humble office boy at a plantation, but I was smart and I worked my way up to manager level. When I was twenty-one, I inherited some money of my own from my grandmother, and I made some good investments – both here and in various locations around the Caribbean. As the investments grew and I found myself with money to spend, I bought _this_ property, as you probably know. That was my way of 'getting back' at the country that had raised me. To take over one of its remaining colonial symbols and make it my own."

He paused, taking in his view for a moment longer before turning and walking back to his seat.

"This is the part of the story that becomes more difficult… Throughout this period, I had kept in touch with Jonathan Masters by correspondence. He had gone to work in the City and would occasionally write to tell me how he was getting on. But then, after a few years, the letters stopped. One day, he turned up, quite unexpectedly, on my doorstep. He said he'd left his job in the City. He would not tell me why but, looking back, I think it highly likely he was sacked for some misdemeanour. He told me he had a small amount of money to invest and wanted to set up a luxury travel business. I…helped him out." He met Humphrey's eyes. "I think it's true to say that, in business, it is very hard to be both successful and honest at the same time. There are rules that can be… bent a little. Having said that, I did not to my knowledge break the law at any time."

"When you say helped out…" Humphrey said, slowly.

"I… well – ‘oiled the wheels’, you might say. Took him to parties and introduced him to useful contacts. He wanted to go into partnership with me. I was not interested in getting involved in a luxury travel company, but he… called in old favours, I suppose. Reminded me of our school days, of our friendship, of the holidays I spent at his parent's home, that kind of thing. So, reluctantly, I agreed to invest a small amount of money on his behalf.

"I very soon came to realise that I had made a mistake. Jonathan was nothing like the boy I remembered… or perhaps -," he smiled, ironically, "- perhaps _I_ had simply grown up. I was engaged to be married by then, and had reconciled with my father. I was beginning to feel the call towards public service. From a business point of view, it _did_ work – for a while. Jonathan was an astute businessman and I did very well out of the connection. But then, I began to grow concerned about some of his business practices. They weren't illegal, but they were not particularly ethical either, and it didn't seem to me that they benefited the island.

"Also, I grew concerned about Jonathan's erratic behaviour. He started to drink heavily and became less reliable as a business partner. I was married by then, with a child on the way, and I decided on a change of career. I became the Business Development Advisor at Government House. I dissolved our partnership and took my share of the money. It was perfectly amicable. He decided to go into partnership with Jessica Law, a young American hotelier who had moved to Sainte-Marie and was known to both of us."

He paused to offer them a refill from the silver teapot before continuing his story. "By pure chance, I met Clive Lawrence again. I had attended a conference in London on investment in British Overseas Territories, and he was there as a legal advisor to the Government. We kept in touch after that and when a vacancy arose for a temporary legal advisor at Government House in Honore, with a six-month contract, he applied for the post. It was something of a whim, I think. He'd got stuck in a rut – was bored with his London legal practice and wanted a new challenge.

"By then, I was running my own department, and one of my assistants was a young woman called Donata Romizi. Her father was Italian but her mother British, and she had lived on the island most of her life." He smiled again; this time, there was an edge of sadness to it. "She was a… _remarkable_ young woman. Fiercely intelligent, passionate about her job, charming and very beautiful. And…one could not help loving her. As for Clive – I think he fell in love with her from the moment he met her. And she felt the same way. He was supposed to stay only for six months, but they married very quickly and he stayed on, transferring to a junior but more permanent post in the diplomatic service. My wife and I became firm friends with them. Our sons grew up together.

"Donata was ambitious and wanted to continue working even after having her children, which was unusual for Sainte-Marie in the 1970s. So Clive stayed in a relatively junior post while she continued to work with me for some years. When I became Deputy Police Commissioner, she was promoted to Business Development Advisor. She received a lot of criticism for being a ‘poor mother’ - she and Clive both - but they were happy and didn't care about idle island gossip. And those boys of theirs were growing into fine young men – they certainly didn't suffer from having a mother at work.

"However, Clive was eventually promoted to a senior diplomatic post. As his work took him abroad quite often, she needed to be at home more. Also, I suppose they no longer needed the security of a dual income. So, finally and very reluctantly, she handed in her notice.

"Before she left, she and I had been dealing with a case involving my old partner, Jonathan Masters. He'd fallen on hard times – made some unfortunate decisions, and he'd never been that financially secure in the first place. He'd always been reliant on a partner. He had set up an illegal pyramid scheme, and Donata and I worked together to close it down. He expected me to go easy on him because of past loyalty, but this time around I refused to play his game. A large number of investors lost money in the scheme and he went on trial, was found guilty of fraud and was given a five year prison sentence. He chose to serve that sentence in Britain.

"What I _didn't_ know at the time was that Masters had more money than he had claimed. He had hidden it in various accounts, and his American partner, Jessica Law, had access to many of them. Before he went to trial, she took a lot of the money and moved it into other bank accounts." He paused. "Donata had her suspicions and discussed them with me. Law had denied all knowledge of the scheme and there was no evidence to connect her to it. I told Donata to let it go – I clearly remember her even at her leaving party, talking to me about it in a low voice, and I remember telling her to forget about it and go and enjoy her special day. But she didn't. After she left, she started looking into matters on her own, compiling her evidence and updating me."

He looked down at his hands as they watched him. Humphrey realised that he was struggling to go on; that the story was too painful to recall. He feared that he knew all too well where this was going, but he schooled himself to keep quiet and allowed Patterson get to the point in his own good time.

"I kept telling her to leave it alone. I – I'm ashamed to admit now that I didn't think it was that important. I thought it highly likely that Ms. Law had taken some of Masters' money, but I didn't expect the amounts to be significant – Masters was known to be profligate in his spending and I didn't expect him to have managed to save so much. But Donata discovered just how much money had been stolen. It would have been enough to have paid off the investors who had lost their money in the pyramid scheme…

He paused, his eyes distant, focused on something that they couldn’t see.  The moment of silence stretched out, before he continued, very quietly. "I can remember that day quite vividly. I… will never forget it.  Clive was chairing a trade meeting in St. Kitts. Donata rang my office, but I wasn’t there.  She sounded excited, they told me later. She had said that she was bringing something important to show me… She was no more than twenty minutes from Government House by car, so when I came out of my meeting an hour later and was given the message, I was confused that she was not already there. I assumed at first that she had been held up… but then, there was a phone call from the police station…  They… they had found her car on the rocks beneath the cliffs. It had burnt out and the occupant was too badly burnt to be identified, but some of her personal possessions had fallen from it when it dropped, and they had a fair idea who the driver was. It was a notorious stretch of coast road, and there had been accidents before…but then Donata knew it well and she was usually a safe driver. I could only assume she had been too focused on her exciting news to drive cautiously enough."

He swallowed quickly, looking away. "I – I can't tell you what it was like, having to go to the school to collect Jules and Josh. They were fourteen and twelve then. My wife Bernadine took care of them while I contacted Clive and arranged for him to come back as quickly as possible. And then there was the memorial service – and Clive and the boys, all neatly turned out and their faces white as a sheet. With all _that_ going on, I completely forgot about the reason why she was coming to see me. If I _did_ think about it, I must have assumed that any evidence she had was destroyed in the car with her.

"It… happened six days’ later. Clive had asked me to sort out her home office. I don't believe he could bear to do it – he had already asked Bernadine to sort out and dispose of her clothes and personal effects. Also, he thought it likely that most of the paperwork she had at home would be related to my old department anyway, and I would have more of an idea of what to do with it.

"Donata… she was a very clever woman. She had made copies of _everything_. She had proof - of _every last cent_ that Masters had taken off his victims, of where Jessica Law had moved the money to, even of what she had spent it on. She had built up a case that would certainly have destroyed Ms. Law’s reputation and could even have seen her thrown into prison.

"She had even taken note of the fact that she was being followed. Without telling Clive, presumably because she didn't want him to worry, she had taken meticulous notes of the times and locations, the model and registration number of the car following her, and a description of the man driving it. I don't know quite _how_ seriously she had taken it – seriously enough that she had spoken to the school, telling them that absolutely no one apart from her or Clive was to collect the boys. And yet, she hadn't reported it to the police. Perhaps she thought that they – we – wouldn't believe her. I'll never know.

"Anyway, I was growing suspicious that the accident was not quite as it seemed. I traced the car's registration number and found it was one of Jessica Law's fleet of vehicles, used by her staff for deliveries between her hotels, and so on. I took a note of the dates, times and locations and instructed the local DI to talk to Ms. Law and investigate who had been in possession of the vehicle during those periods. We were very discreet, merely suggesting that the driver might be a vital witness to certain crimes, and Ms. Law seemed quite happy to help, although she said it was difficult for her staff to remember for certain who might have been out at those times, and she herself had nothing to do with the allocation of the staff cars.

"I mentioned my suspicions to Clive, but he was not interested. All the spark and energy had gone out of him; they had died along with Donata. All he cared about was his sons, and he was no longer convinced that Sainte-Marie was a good environment for them. He sought a transfer to London, with the idea that he might settle them with their grandparents in the countryside. When I tried to reason with him that her death might have been murder and we needed to investigate, he grew angry and didn't want to know. He accused me of bringing up a painful subject, when he just wanted to forget and move on for the sake of his children.

"I wasn't entirely sure what to do. In my possession, I had easily enough evidence to charge Ms. Law with theft and fraud on a grand scale. All I had to do was present the evidence to the Prosecutor. And yet… I hesitated. I wanted to hold out for a murder investigation, but I didn't have enough proof. I didn't want Law to know I was investigating her until I had that evidence.

"But, as it turned out, she was far cleverer than I realised. She must have known or suspected that Donata had passed on her evidence to me. One day, at home, I received an anonymous envelope – hand-delivered and no one had seen who it was. Inside, there was no letter, just a few photocopied pages." He paused. "What I had been sent was proof that Clive Lawrence had given money to Jonathan Masters to set up the pyramid scheme. The documentation, if released, would be enough for him to be tried for abetting fraud.

"When I questioned Clive, he admitted it. Jonathan had done as he had with me – presented himself as a friend in need and played on old loyalties. Usually, Clive was extremely cautious in matters of money and would investigate all possible legal loopholes, but on this occasion he was persuaded. He obviously didn't know the true nature of the scheme that his money was supporting, but that wouldn't have been a good enough excuse in court – he had his signature on documents that included its name. He had thought that Jonathan was setting up a franchise for yoga retreats – something of that nature. And, in the end, he'd partly done it to make Jonathan go away and stop pestering him. Donata would _never_ have let him invest if she'd known anything about it."

"Do you think she _knew_ that he was involved?" Camille asked. "Perhaps she had been sent the same documents? If she had known, wouldn't she have been quite agitated? Perhaps it wasn't a deliberate crash after all?"

Patterson looked at her. "I did wonder that…but no. I don't believe she could have known. If she had, she wouldn't have been rushing to see me at work in the middle of the morning. She would have had it out with Clive first and then spoken to me privately afterwards. Well…I suppose we will never know now."

He looked directly at Humphrey, his face quite unapologetic. "So…I took the decision to destroy the evidence. I took those incriminating documents and all the work that Donata had done to expose a thief and fraudster and quite possibly a murderer… and I burned the lot to ashes. I knew it was wrong – I knew that if I was ever found out, it would be the end of my career…but I did it anyway. For Clive and for Julien and Joshua. I betrayed Donata's trust and all that she stood for – to save her husband and her sons."

 


	16. Chapter 16

Humphrey liked to think he was a relatively easy-going officer. He could be sympathetic to individual circumstances and, over the years, had been known to turn a blind eye to the occasional minor contravention. He'd waived the occasional speeding points when the driver quite clearly wasn't a repeat offender or given drunken youths a firm talking-to instead of arresting them. Even here on Honore, he'd gone easy on more than one young offender who might have otherwise found themselves with a criminal record that would have blighted their future. But that had been about it.

When it came to more serious crime, his views were solid. Justice had to be done – and when the perpetrator was a police officer or someone in a position of authority, it was vitally important that justice was _seen_ to be done. As a police officer Humphrey considered himself accountable to the community he served, and any of his officers who fell below that standard in their behaviour would soon find themselves at the receiving end of his rare bad temper.

More than once at the Met, his rigid sense of justice had led to him being approached to join the anti-corruption squad that investigated internal cases, but he found the very idea depressing. He wanted to think the best of his fellow officers and the senior managers – it might have been naïve, but Humphrey generally tried to see the best in everyone.

And now, here was Selwyn Patterson, a much decorated civil servant in a position of trust and authority, actually _confessing_ to a crime. He was admitting to the destruction of evidence that could have seen two people jailed for fraud – and one of them possibly even murder. And yet… when it came down to it, would _he_ , _Humphrey_ , have done anything different in the circumstances? What if he'd had a piece of evidence of that nature relating to a friend? What if it had been _Camille_ facing ruin and potential punishment for one innocent misjudgement? Or Fidel or Dwayne or Catherine?

He glanced over at Camille. She was sitting forward in her chair, a frown of consternation on her face as she looked at Patterson, but almost as if she sensed the direction of his thoughts, she looked over at him. Her face was grave, but her usually emotive eyes were guarded and it was hard to tell exactly what she was thinking. As they looked at each other, though, she seemed to understand his internal turmoil and her eyes softened a little before she looked back at the Commissioner.

Patterson continued his story. "I knew it was wrong but I just _couldn't_ put Clive and the boys through the trauma of a trial, to say nothing of the charges that would have been levelled at _him_ as well. He wanted to leave Sainte-Marie and put all of this behind him. If he'd been dragged into a trial, the best case scenario would have been that he was found not guilty, but that could have taken months. And that was just the most positive outcome and not all that likely. So I kept silent…and he left a few weeks' later. My silence was the least I could do, in the circumstances. The boys were sent away to school and to their grandparents' during holidays, and Clive went to work for the Foreign Office. And that was that – or so I assumed."

He paused, as if inviting their comment, but Humphrey couldn't think of a single question to ask. After a period of silence, Patterson coughed a little uncomfortably and went on.

"He met his second wife, Emma, at the Foreign Office – she was a library student on placement – and they married three years' later. The boys would have been 17 and 15 then. They never really accepted her and cut themselves off from their father as a result. Of course, she was not much older than them at the time," he added reflectively. "Only 23 when they married and already pregnant with Edward…and Clive was 42 by then. I had my doubts and so did Bernadine, but I _will_ say that the marriage seems to have worked well. She is very different to Donata. Far more reserved and very 'English' if I can put it like that."

"And his other boys - Julien and Joshua? Have they been back to Sainte-Marie since?" Humphrey asked.

Patterson paused, considering. "Not that I am aware of. Of course, by then, Clive was using his Sainte-Marie house for holidays only rather than as a permanent residence, so I don't know how much contact he has had with them in Britain over the years. I can tell you that Bernadine and I have lost contact completely. It was a terrible shame, as she and I viewed them as family. We were so close back then. They often popped into the Residence after school with our own sons. And my younger son David was particularly friendly with Josh – they were much the same age and temperament."

"And David and Josh haven't kept in touch?"

Again, Patterson hesitated. "If he _has_ , he hasn't mentioned it to _me_." He spoke in a slightly firmer tone that suggested he would rather not discuss his son further, so Humphrey let it go. From what Camille had said, the Commissioner's two sons were not around much these days…and his wife was also notable for her frequent absences from the island. He wondered whether their marriage had broken down in all but name.

"Sir, I was wondering -," Camille asked tentatively, "- do you have any idea why the Lawrences don't have pictures of Julien or Joshua on display?"

"I wouldn't know - you'd have to ask Clive and Emma that," Patterson replied, seeming surprised. "But why are you interested in Jules and Josh?"

"Oh, no particular reason. It's just that we don't have a very clear idea of them," she explained. "No photographs, apart from some grainy ones of Joshua on the Internet. And sometimes it helps to get the context if you see a photograph."

" _Ah_ … I think I can help you there." He led them back into his office and went to his large old-fashioned filing cabinet. He pulled out a file and extracted some newspaper cuttings, dropping them on his desk to sort through them.

"I keep anything I see in the press," he said. "Partly because I'm a governor at the boys' old school, and they like to keep records of local boys and girls who have done well for themselves. We do tend to think of the Lawrence boys as 'local' as they spent most of their childhoods here. And partly, of course, because I knew them growing up and like to know how they are doing… Aha! Here we are."

He turned a couple of the cuttings around to face Humphrey and Camille. There was a report from the Financial Times with a picture of a smiling Julien Lawrence standing, arms folded, in front of his headquarters when he was appointed Head of Investment at Barclays Bank. The pictures of Joshua were harder to make out – there was one largish picture of him, having been caught with other members of the press in the corner of a photograph of a disgraced politician at the height of the MP cash expenses scandal. It was hard to get much of an impression, as he was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face. In another, taken from behind, his head was uncovered and his face turned slightly to the left, caught in profile. There was something a little familiar about that profile, but for now it eluded Humphrey. He could see that the adult Joshua was as blond as he had been in childhood.

"And here – look." Patterson had moved across the room to get a framed photograph from a bookshelf. It was a family photograph, taken when the boys were aged around 7 and 5.

Humphrey examined Donata with interest. She was, as Patterson had suggested, quite stunningly beautiful, with electric blue eyes and long, flowing blonde hair cascading down her back. The boys were as white-blond as she was, although he supposed they might have grown darker as they got older. But he could see their resemblance to their younger half-siblings, which was ironic as both sets of children tended to resemble their mothers more strongly. It implied that Clive's second wife had been very similar in looks to his first, even if her temperament was quite different.

Humphrey paused. "Do you mind if I keep these with me? Or perhaps your secretary could take a copy?"

Patterson looked puzzled but held out his hand for the photograph. "Certainly, if you think it will help." He pressed a button on his desk to summon his PA; she appeared immediately and silently and took the photo and the cuttings to make copies.

While she was gone, Humphrey asked, "Commissioner, can you tell me exactly what Ernest Nieto threatened you with? Was it to do with Clive Lawrence?"

The Commissioner nodded. "He said he had proof – his own copy of the documents that Jessica Law had sent to me so many years ago. He said he could witness to the fact that I had been made aware of Clive's involvement and he accused me of destroying crucial evidence. He threatened to give the documents to a freelance journalist from Britain, who is apparently on the island at the moment and asking questions about the case. It would be enough to destroy Clive's reputation and I would probably lose my job." He shook his head. "I had to pay him off – temporarily at least. I couldn't take the risk - not without consulting Clive first. So I wrote the cheque and ordered him off my property."

"Did he speak to Clive, Emma or the children while he was here?"

He shook his head. "Not that I saw – and I watched him until he left, as I wanted to make sure he _had_ left. He was still dressed as a gardener, and I don't think anyone paid any attention to him. I then went to check on the Lawrences. I think Clive was arguing with his son about something. Then Edward walked away – I suppose it would be more accurate to say that he 'stormed off', as is that young man's usual habit - and Clive looked around and caught my eye. He followed me back into the office and we discussed what to do about Nieto. I contacted my bank and blocked the cheque immediately… in fact, for such a large amount, they would have contacted me anyway. Anyway, Clive was adamant about that – he was not prepared to submit to blackmail. The concern was that Nieto could make good on his promise – after all, he would not have as much to lose as Jessica Law. At least with _her_ I have been able to keep a measure of control." He smiled, although it looked more like a grimace. "I have been unable to challenge her, admittedly, but equally she dares not challenge _me_."

"But… you must want justice for Donata?" Humphrey asked. "How have you managed to live on this island all these years, when your friend's potential murderer is free?"

Patterson was quiet for a moment. "I won't say it has been easy, particularly in the early years. But I wouldn't act without Clive's permission, and he steadfastly refused to discuss it. And, as the years went by, I suppose I came to wonder what difference it would make -."

" _Difference_?" Camille exclaimed, sounding incredulous.

The Commissioner looked at her, a little ironically. "Would imprisoning Jessica Law bring Donata back?"

"No, of course not, but… but that's like saying that there's no point in charging the drug traffickers who sell the drugs that kill young people at parties or the dangerous driver who kills a pedestrian. Well, isn't it? If you take that view, why would we even bother to investigate crimes?" she demanded. "Don't get me wrong, Sir, I think I can understand why you took the decision that you did, but wouldn't you want to see Donata's killer brought to justice if we could manage it without bringing harm to your friend?"

There was a little smile of admiration on Patterson's face as he looked at Camille. "And _that,_ Officer Bordey, is why you will one day be a DCI. I am certain of it." His expression darkened and he looked towards the French doors, a little muscle working in his jaw. "Yes, of _course_ I would like to see that woman pay for what I suspect she did to my friend. It nearly killed me to stay silent. It…" he gave a small, rather bitter, smile. "I think it is fair to say that it nearly cost me my marriage at one point…"

He trailed off, looking embarrassed by the revelation, and Humphrey jumped in, quickly. "And now we have _Emilia's_ killer to think of. Even if you discount what happened twenty five years' ago, a young woman has been murdered and we have a responsibility to find her killer, no matter who may be affected."

Patterson looked at him quickly. "So you would agree with me that it is unlikely her death is merely an unfortunate accident?"

"The evidence suggests it.  However, we don't know for certain that the cases are connected – _yet_ ," Humphrey said, firmly.

"But how can they _not_ be?" The Commissioner sounded perplexed.

Humphrey could see his point. Nieto was a deeply unpleasant individual – the man's drug trafficking activities and callous treatment of himself and Camille could confirm that, but if you added blackmail to the mix…and then what if he'd actually been involved in Donata's death? He'd been working for Law after all, and seemed to know what had happened.

"Did you get the impression that Nieto had anything to do with Donata's death?" he asked. "I mean, did he say anything to suggest that he or Ms. Law _specifically_ were involved?"

The Commissioner hesitated, thinking it over. "No," he admitted, reluctantly. "I thought he might brag but…nothing. He has no love for Ms. Law, that's for certain. He made it clear that he did not care what would happen to her if I refused to pay up."

"Which implies that he doesn't fear any trails leading back to him…" Humphrey mused.

"Or else he is arrogant enough to think he'll get away with it," Camille added. "He wasn't afraid of harming two police officers, was he? Even most hardened criminals will avoid the dangers of becoming a 'cop killer'. I believe he thinks he is untouchable."

"We need more on his background. Let's get Fidel onto Interpol again and see what we can find out about his time here before. Speak to anyone who worked with him. Did he have any friends? Why did he come here in the first place? What was his relationship with Law like?"

Patterson gave a little cough. "If there is anything I can do to help, you will let me know?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Sir." Humphrey nodded respectfully at the Commissioner. "We'll be in touch."

Patterson inclined his head gravely, his eyes not leaving Humphrey's. " _Thank you_ , Detective Inspector." The words were heartfelt and it was clear that they were more than just a pleasantry.

As the PA handed them the copies of the photographs and showed them out, Humphrey glanced over his shoulder and saw the great man standing at his French doors, looking out at his extensive property, the fruits of his success. He cut a lonely figure and Humphrey wondered exactly what sacrifices Patterson had made over the years…and whether it had really been worth it.

* * *

 

Back at the station, Humphrey gave Fidel and Dwayne the bare facts – saying merely that it was now possible that there could be a link between Emilia's murder and the death of her father's first wife, and that the drug trafficker had been positively identified as Ernest Nieto. He didn't mention the attempt to blackmail the Commissioner, although he did say that Donata had been investigating Jessica Law at the time of her death and it was vital to try to trace the movement of her cars on the day of the first Mrs Lawrence's death.

He could tell by their faces that they weren't too sure of his evidence – Dwayne had been a teenager at the time and remembered the case; Fidel had no recollection of it – but both believed that the specific section of road was notorious for accidents. They weren't keen to go off at a tangent when there was a more immediate matter to be dealt with – namely the continuing distribution of the dangerous drug.

"Look," Humphrey added, "it's possible that this _is_ just a red herring, but let's check it out anyway. I can't really give you the full facts at this stage, but just trust me on this. I know you want to get that drug off the market as soon as possible. Why don't we ask Guadeloupe for extra resources? Fidel, get onto them tomorrow first thing and ask them to send over a drugs enforcement team ASAP. We haven't asked them for any extra help up to now. We need Nieto's house secured and searched for traces of cocaine."

"OK, Sir." Fidel scribbled a note in his book. "We've got all the Special Constables out on duty tonight – they'll be patrolling around the clubs handing out warning leaflets about the drug. And we've declared an amnesty for anyone who wants to hand anything in or give us any evidence."

"Good." Humphrey paused. "So…where are we now? Let's look at the priorities for tomorrow."

Camille pulled the case board out. The copy of the smiling photo of Emilia and her brother were stuck in the centre. Off to the side, someone had already added slightly grainy pictures of Daniel and Antoine Le Fondre, the two boys from the village, and had drawn a connecting line between Daniel and Eddie Lawrence.

Camille now added the copies of the photos they'd received from the Commissioner – the family picture of Clive, Donata and the boys, and the individual photos of Julien and Joshua Lawrence. Fidel also brought over a hastily printed mug shot of Ernest Nieto and a smiling promotional photo of Jessica Law.

Frowning at the board, Humphrey scribbled connectors between the three drugs traffickers and then between Nieto and Law. After a moment's hesitation, he also put in a line between Law and Donata and then dotted lines between Nieto and both Donata and Emilia.

Fidel stared at the two dead women – first at Emilia and then Donata. "They are very alike, aren't they? Considering she's the image of her own mother, and they're not related at all?"

Dwayne grunted. "I guess Mr. Lawrence went for a very specific look in his women… _What_?" he demanded, as Camille shot a meaningful look at him. "It's true, anyway. Look at the boys – they could be full brothers."

Humphrey stared at the photographs. "Yes…" he said, slowly. "They _could_ be, couldn't they?" He stepped back a little, turning his head from side to side as he compared the photographs.

The adult Julien was just a touch more like Clive, but as for Joshua… the likeness to both Eddie and Emilia in terms of colouring was striking. Admittedly, there wasn't much to see of his face in the two photographs of him, but in the photograph taken from behind showing the back of his gleaming blond head... Humphrey hesitated.

He felt rather than saw Camille step up alongside him. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she murmured.

"Yes, I think I might be…" He gestured at the back of Joshua's head.  “From this angle, he could quite _easily_ be mistaken for -."

"Eddie Lawrence," she finished for him.

Humphrey turned to Dwayne, urgently. "Dwayne, was it you who talked to that American girl at the party who saw Emilia arguing with a fair-haired man – what was her name again…?"

The DC pulled out his notebook and checked. "Charisse Williams – that was the one. She's staying in a backpacker's hostel on the main strip. You want me to track her down, show her a copy of that photo?"

"Please. And Fidel, can you work your usual magic with the computer – look for single men arriving from Britain over the last couple of weeks and see if any of them might be a potential match.  You can check for Joshua Lawrence too, but I suspect it'll be too easy for him to be travelling under his real name. Camille, could you ring the Lawrences and ask Clive if he's had any recent contact with either of his older sons?"

As the team sprung to their tasks, he turned back to the board, rearranging the photos so that there was a distinct square between Emilia and Eddie, Donata and her family, Joshua Lawrence and Ernest Nieto. He then drew a firm line between Joshua Lawrence and Jessica Law.

"Sir?" Camille called from her desk. "He says he hasn't seen Joshua for over two years. He admitted that they don't get on all that well. He saw Julien briefly in London last week before he flew here, and that was so that Julien could tell him that his wife is expecting a baby – Mr. Lawrence's first grandchild. They didn't discuss Joshua."

Dwayne had made a copy of Joshua's photograph and tucked it in his notebook. "OK, boss, I'm going to try tracking down Charisse, and then after that I'll do a quick round of the nightclubs and see how the Specials are getting on. Do you need me back here after that?"

Humphrey glanced at his watch; it was now after six. "No, that's OK – you get on home. We'll carry on tomorrow. Just ring me on my mobile to let me know if her identification is positive or negative. Fidel, anything yet?"

The young DS was bent over his computer, frowning in concentration. "You're right that no 'Joshua Lawrence' has arrived, either by plane or boat. There’s been a few British men travelling alone that might match, though. I’m scrolling through the names."

"OK – well, keep on with it for a bit longer, if you can – but don't work too late. I don't want to risk Juliet's wrath." He smiled at the thought of Fidel's wife and sweet little daughter. "As for me… I need to go home and change into something a bit smarter. Camille, would you care to go for a drink with me?"

She gave him a surprised look – it wasn't their usual custom to go to Catherine's on a Monday night, and definitely not during a case. "Sure…but why?"

He grinned. "Oh, I just thought we'd try going somewhere different. No offence to your mother… but what's the name of the _main_ hotel that Jessica Law owns? The one that she's based at?"

 


	17. Chapter 17

It would have surprised many of his friends and certainly his current colleagues, but Humphrey _did_ , in fact, own a decent suit.

He had Sally to thank for that, in the first place for purchasing said suit for him. She'd bought it when he’d first started at the Met, with the idea that he might need it for the kind of receptions and parties that ambitious young detective inspectors tended to attend for networking purposes. The fact that he subsequently went out of his way to avoid those kinds of parties was neither here nor there.

Since the suit had gone into storage in the UK, he _also_ had Sally to thank for the fact that after their final bittersweet meeting, she had, very generously in the circumstances, had gone through his possessions, pulled out a few items that she thought might be useful to him and shipped them on. It was typical of Sally's practical nature to assess his current living situation and work out what he might need.

She'd had the suit pressed and packed very carefully, sticking a note to the box which read "Just in case a suitable occasion arises". He'd struggled to think of an occasion, wondering precisely what Sally had been getting at, and had stored the suit still in its packaging in the back of his wardrobe.

He'd worn it for the first time at the Commissioner's formal party on Saturday. As he pulled it from its hanger in the wardrobe, hoping that it wasn't too creased, he paused in thought. Had it _really_ been only two days ago that he was sweating and making uncomfortable small talk in the Old Residency gardens? So much had happened since then, it seemed impossible.

A spasm of pain shot through his knee as he changed his trousers and, with a pang of guilt, he remembered the doctor's instructions to rest it. The trouble was, he didn't feel he could hang around on this case. His keen detective senses were telling him that the victims would start to pile up if he didn't get to the bottom of this mystery as quickly as possible. He would have to take time to rest once the perpetrator had been caught…and pray that he hadn't done his knee permanent damage by then.

He paired the suit with his best blue shirt, hesitated over a tie and then decided that it was too hot to even contemplate that. At least he was dressed in a dark bespoke suit from one of the more expensive London houses – that alone should help him fit in with the usual clientele at the Hotel Sainte-Marie International.

There was nothing much he could do about his hair, so he didn't even bother to try.

" _Wow_!" Camille raised her eyebrows as she arrived to collect him, looking gratifying impressed for once. "You scrub up well when you make the effort."

"Thanks…I _think_ ," he muttered drily. He turned away from a gloomy contemplation of his image in the mirror to face her fully and take in the full effect.

She was dressed in red. It was obviously a favourite colour and one that he'd seen her in plenty of times, but he hadn't seen this specific dress before. It was a little longer and more conservative than the dresses she normally wore, ending just above her knees. It was sleeveless, fairly high in the neck and cinched at the waist just enough to accentuate her slim waist and curvy hips. He was no expert on women's fashion, but he could tell by the fine silky appearance of the material that this dress was more expensive than her usual outfits. All in all, she was rather pleasant to look at.

She caught his keen appraisal and looked down at herself, seeming oddly self-conscious for Camille. "Ah…it's from my Paris days. I don't get many chances to wear it…and you _did_ say smart."

"It's lovely… _You're_ lovely," he said quite truthfully, before his brain could catch up enough to tell his stupid mouth to shut up.

She smiled faintly, looking away. " _Thank_ you. It's always nice to be appreciated."

As they wandered over to the jeep, he wondered what she meant. Was it a deliberately objective response? Had she noticed his regard? If she _had_ , was this a subtle way to let him down gently?

"Humphrey, I was just wondering," she asked, as she got into the driver's seat. "What's our cover story for turning up at the International dressed like this?"

He shrugged. "I don't think there _needs_ to be a cover. You're well known, even if I'm not, so it'd be overly optimistic to think that we _won't_ be recognised as local police officers. I think that I'm simply taking my sergeant out for a drink at a nice hotel as a 'thank you' for her hard work."

She raised a wry eyebrow. " _Really_?"

He flushed a little at the insinuation. "Not like that! Or – wait a minute though -," he thought again, quickly, "- actually, why not _exactly_ that? Um, I mean…let's make it seem that we don't want to be seen by our colleagues or friends, and that's why we're _there_ rather than at our usual bar. Let's seem a little furtive about it – I'm taking a junior member of staff on a date when I really shouldn't be. It might disarm them a bit."

She drove for a couple of minutes in silence before saying: "Is that what you think?"

"Um – what?" He was distracted, thinking of the evening ahead. He had no specific goal in mind, he simply wanted to get a look at Ms. Law if he could and get a feeling for the place, the staff and their employer.

She paused before carrying on. "Do you – do _British_ police officers worry about that kind of thing? About… fraternisation with junior officers?"

 _Ah_ … He had a feeling he knew where this was going. "Well, it's rather drummed into us, especially at the Met. Sexual harassment and all that. And I think that a senior officer who was _very keen_ on the rules might be particularly concerned…even if those rules were contrary to his wishes," he added, delicately.

"Yes. I see." Her voice was guarded; risking a glance at her, he saw that she was looking straight ahead, focusing on the road.

The tense silence between them deepened until he broke it, hesitantly. "You probably got that from the diary though, I imagine? I mean, you know that he – Richard – was always very keen on the rules."

She gave him a startled look, but before he could explain further, his mobile rang.

It was Dwayne. "Just checking in, boss. First off, I caught up with that girl, Charisse Williams. She thought that the man she saw _could_ be Joshua Lawrence. She confirmed the colour of his hair anyway. But she really did only see the back of him, so it's not a firm ID… And I've been up and down the main strip. The Specials are on the club doors, handing out warnings. Nothing's come up yet. I'm gonna pop home, get out of my uniform. There're a couple of contacts I've got…and they'll be more likely to talk if I'm not there as a policeman, if you get my meaning."

Humphrey got it. All local officers had their unofficial contacts and he had too much sense to get involved. They were usually petty criminals who knew what was going on even if they weren't directly involved, and he trusted his local officers to keep them in line. "Thanks, Dwayne. Good luck – and stay safe."

He filled Camille in and she smiled. "Let's hope you won't need his help tonight, because he'll probably have a couple of beers with them too. Still, it'll relax them and then he'll pick something up without them even thinking about it. He's good at that."

"He _is_ good. Far better than I would be in that situation," he admitted. "Talking of which…"

"I assume you haven't done much undercover work before?" She sounded amused.

"Make that none. I mean, I've travelled around, but usually as myself."

"Well, that's what you _are_ tonight – yourself. It's not as if you have to play someone else."

"Um, no, but – well, you know what I mean. The – um – the whole 'dating' thing."

She slowed down to turn right, shooting him a strange look as she did so. " _Please_ don't tell me you're as awkward with women as Richard was. You have been married, so presumably you know how 'the dating thing' works? I'm sure you can put on a good enough act."

"Well, but…" But his mouth dried up. He couldn't possibly say that this would be a little too close to reality for him.

She paused again, concentrating on the road, before saying casually, "Don't worry, just take your lead from me. I've done this kind of thing enough times in my life."

And _that_ comment opened up a whole new can of worms… But he couldn't start thinking about how many men Camille had dated – or had pretended to date – in her past. He knew from a few acquaintances who had worked undercover that sometimes agents had to do things that were morally suspect just to get close to a suspect of the opposite gender. Was that why Camille was so adept at circumventing unwanted male attention?

They were winding up the steep, tree-lined road that led out of the main town and over the crest of a hill before descending into the next bay. Here, there were a number of large resort-style hotels that attracted the bulk of the island's richer tourists. Each owned their own part of the beach so that, as Dwayne often remarked caustically, the visitors wouldn't be forced to encounter any locals apart from the ones that worked at their hotel. It was a form of tourism that was quite alien to Humphrey; on the rare occasions that he'd holidayed abroad, he'd much preferred to experience the local colour.

"Have you been to the International before?"

"No – I know where it is, of course. But I have never had a reason to. There's never been any crime committed there – not that _we_ know of, anyway. And it isn't the kind of place that you just walk into."

"Why not? It has a bar and restaurant open to non-residents, hasn't it?"

She hesitated. "Yes…but with some of these hotels, it's very clear that you're not _really_ welcome if you're 'just' a local. Well, not unless you have a lot of money to spend, anyway. There's a certain atmosphere…"

Her voice trailed off. He looked at her in surprise; it was not like Camille to be put off by snobbish behaviour. Unless… she couldn't mean…?

"Do you mean, unless you're rich _and_ White?" In this day and age, surely not?

She gave him a wry glance. "There is never anything you can put your finger on, of course. It's just an impression."

Humphrey frowned. He'd never sensed any particular racial tension on Sainte-Marie, which didn't mean it _didn't_ exist, of course. And the patrons of the bigger international hotels did tend to be predominantly White, but he had just assumed that was simply down to the populations that they generally appealed to – mainly upper- or middle-class, middle-aged couples or honeymooners, looking for a peaceful break with guaranteed sunshine. He suspected that their interest in the island went no further than that.

He forced a casual smile as the jeep arrived at the gates of the Hotel Sainte-Marie International. "Well, let's just see how 'welcome' they make us feel. I'm not interested in being welcomed, just so long as we can get a good look around."

There was a guard at the open gateway, but he waved them through without much interest. He was obviously there to stop the serious riff-raff from going in. Humphrey supposed that the Honore police jeep didn't fall into that category, however dusty it might be. Actually, it occurred to him that he and Camille must look a little odd, dressed smartly but driving a battered jeep. She obviously had the same thought, because she parked not too far beyond the entrance by simply pulling over to the side of the road that wound through the extensive resort.

Camille smiled a little impishly at Humphrey and put her hand through his arm as they walked up the road together towards the main hotel. His heart thumped a little faster at the contact.

The International was typical of the large hotels in the Caribbean, with its own private beach and enough facilities that the tourists didn't need to venture out of the resort unless they really wanted to. It also owned a substantial piece of inland low-lying scrub, which had been cleverly landscaped into a series of artificial lakes and tropical gardens. The lakes were dotted with isolated, expensive-looking bungalows that were linked by palm tree-lined walkways and bridges. The scene was bizarre – in its artificiality, it reminded Humphrey of a Centerparcs resort in the UK, except that here the tourists were using motorised buggies or small motorboats to travel around the resort instead of bicycles.

Camille laughed at the look on Humphrey's face. "Awful, isn't it? But people will pay. Most of those bungalows are probably privately owned by finance companies. They'll hold their conferences here and let them out to wealthy tourists when they don't need them."

They strolled past the hotel’s impressive-looking entrance and into the garden, which led directly to the beach. Here, they could see a number of open air bars and restaurants available to anyone, not just those staying in the resort. Although the strip of beach fronting the hotel was described as 'private', in reality, as with all the hotels along this section, there was nothing to stop someone from strolling along the bay from one end to the other. There were security guards looking out for potential thieves or troublemakers, who could include essentially anyone who didn't look rich enough to stay there, but they didn't have the power to detain or remove ordinary people. The hotels generally relied on the fact that the locals had their own beaches and weren't sufficiently interested in invading this one.

It was fairly obvious that the locals really _didn't_ bother. Looking at the people around them, Humphrey realised that he would have looked seriously out of place if he hadn't got changed. The majority of people here were very well dressed for the beach in dinner jackets and expensive dresses; he couldn't see anyone wearing shorts or denim. It was clear that Ms. Law's hotel promoted certain standards. In her Parisian dress, Camille looked perfectly at home, even though he could tell by her slightly stilted body language that she didn't care for the place.

He looked out at a bay crowded with parasols, beach bars and pleasure boats and couldn't help feeling that his own quiet little bay was far superior. He only ventured into these exclusive enclaves when he had to, usually in relation to a case, and in general shared the distaste of the locals who needed to make a living from tourism and had that opportunity denied to them by these 'all-inclusive' resorts.

Camille kept her hand linked through his arm as she steered him towards one of the beach bars; it looked like a friendly gesture but she was leading him quite firmly and he went with her, recognising that she had a purpose in mind. Camille usually had a good 'eye' for a scene, thanks to her training for undercover work. The quivering tension he could feel in her, almost vibrating through her hand, _may_ have indicated discomfort or it may simply have been the adrenaline of being 'undercover' again, albeit in a minor way. He knew she still missed that work to some degree.

"It's the best spot for visibility," she murmured in his ear as they perched on stools by the bar. "Also, I know the bartender well – he is a friend of Maman - which could be useful."

Sure enough, the handsome young barman gave Camille a little wink as he came to take their order. Humphrey had to suppress a twinge of jealousy as his DS chatted happily with the man, the two of them idly discussing cocktails before she made her choice. He didn't seem to have much custom at present; his was just one of a number of small bars dotted around the resort and it was still relatively early in the evening. They made a striking pair as they leaned close to each other across the bar – in fact, Camille was attracting a number of glances, both admiring and envious. She ignored the attention with her usual level-headedness and, when her friend got a little too flirtatious, she laughingly placed her hand on Humphrey’s wrist in a gesture that was designed to appear intimate. Taking in her body language, the barman shook his head ruefully and grinned at them both before going to serve a new customer on the other side of his circular bar.

Humphrey sipped the cocktail that Camille had ordered for him and winced at the sweetness of the liquor. He would very much rather have been relaxing at Catherine's right now, or perhaps on his own terrace with his injured leg propped up and a cold beer in his hand. He felt bone tired; still exhausted from their ordeal of the previous day, and the throbbing in his knee was beginning to irritate. He regretted the necessity for alcohol, since it would make it more difficult for him to take any pain killers later, but it would have looked a little odd if he'd ordered plain water while on a date. The sooner he solved this case, the better.

Camille looked as fresh as ever, the breeze ruffling the silk of her dress, as she glanced around in a casual manner. "It's typical of a resort. Over-priced cocktails – although the quality is surprisingly good." She nodded towards the bartender, speaking quietly. "Maman trained Nico, so he knows his cocktails. I can't imagine he's happy working here, but it's a job. He wants his own bar eventually."

"So you know him quite well?" He tried to force a carefree smile onto frozen lips, but suspected it looked more like a grimace. He was decidedly _not good_ at this undercover stuff.

She glanced at Humphrey quickly before looking back over the scene, a vague smile on her lips. "I might have dated him once or twice. He's fun, but thinks a lot of himself. He's not my type."

That was obvious, he told himself a little bitterly, even as she kept her fingers on his wrist, giving it a comforting little squeeze. He expected her to drop her hand again, but instead she kept hold of him and leaned in, appearing to kiss his cheek.

As her lips moved close to his skin, she whispered. "We're being watched. Smile _properly_."

Humphrey lifted his glass and grinned at her rather manically as he took another sip. "Where do I need to look?"

"You can't at the moment. She's just over your right shoulder, near the hotel. Talking to someone but she keeps looking in our direction. It's Jessica Law."

He laughed, as if she had just said something very funny, and leaned a little closer to her. "Well, that was easier than I expected. I wasn't sure she would even be here in the evenings. Doesn't she have a manager to take care of everyday things?"

"I think she's talking to him."

He could tell that Law had stopped looking by the way that Camille's slightly simpering expression was suddenly replaced by a grimace at his over-acting. "She's moving away – you can look now."

He turned his head, trying to be casual about it. Jessica Law was a tall woman, smartly dressed in a skirt suit. For someone who must be in her late fifties or even early sixties, she looked impressively young – no doubt, cosmetic surgery had been involved.  He admired the way she negotiated the sand in her high heels as she walked back through the beach and the gardens in the direction of the hotel. She was with a young man, equally well dressed, who was nodding and typing rather frantically into his smartphone as she gave him her orders.

Just before she disappeared behind some bushes, her neat dark head turned and she looked very deliberately at Humphrey. He had no time to react, but a flash of her sharp blue eyes told him that he was dealing with a very clever woman. She clearly knew who they were – and probably _why_ they were here as well.

He sighed, putting down the sickly drink. "So much for the undercover stuff."

She laughed. "Oh, I don't know. It's _fun_ – I haven't done this for a very long time." Casually, she slid her hand down his wrist to entwine their fingers while eying a band that was setting up at an open pavilion nearby. "It's a shame about your knee; you could ask me to dance otherwise."

He shuddered. "I'd sooner dance at your mother's bar, or at the beach. This place gives me the willies… I can't say why exactly, but I could never relax in a place like this."

She followed his gaze to the grand frontage of the large hotel. "That's because you have a conscience – and a sense of adventure. I can't imagine you ever going to a place and _not_ plunging into the middle of things."

He smiled a little sheepishly, very conscious of the fact that her hand was still in his and she seemed to show no desire to let it go. "You know me too well. It used to drive Sally _mad_. We'd go and stay in some picturesque little spot in the Scottish countryside or something, and the next thing she knew I'd have made friends with the locals and would have been invited out for a full day's fishing at the Loch the following day. Or someone would've told me about some local monument that I just _had_ to see, and instead of a romantic meal in a cosy pub, she'd find herself struggling through mud and pouring rain just to see some mouldy little marker stone."

She laughed. "Well, I can understand _that_. Although the rain was not really your fault...or rather perhaps it _was_ your fault if you were foolish enough to go on holiday in such a watery place. I do not understand why the British insist on going on holiday in cold, rainy places… _Humphrey_? What is it?"

He had dropped her hand and turned more fully towards the hotel to stare at a large group of people standing in the gardens immediately in front of it. "I thought I just saw… wait a minute…" He stood up, straining to see in the twilight. "Yes! Right there, just behind that group – do you see him?"

She stood up as well, peering around him. He pointed towards the retreating figure of a tall, blond man. "That looks like -."

"Eddie Lawrence!" she interrupted. "But since he's unlikely to be here and the man looks much older…?"

"It _could_ be Joshua Lawrence," he continued, excitedly. "Which means he _is_ here on the island, and maybe it _was_ him at the party. Come on, let's see where he's heading."

The man was moving quickly, and they had to hurry through the crowds to keep him in sight. Without a backward glance, he strode around the side of the hotel and into the grounds beyond. In the half an hour since they arrived, the sun had gone down and Humphrey found it hard to spot him in the dimly lit gardens. After a few tense moments, Camille silently pointed him out walking over one of the bridges towards a dark bungalow.

They backed up into the shadows of the hotel and watched. The man seemed to pause for a moment right underneath a lamp and they got a good view of his pale gleaming head. He turned, looking behind him for a long moment and they froze against the wall. As he turned away again, Camille consulted a copy of the photograph on her phone and nodded emphatically. "That's _definitely_ Joshua Lawrence."

As Humphrey move to follow him, she grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute! Shouldn't we get back-up first? He could be Emilia's killer."

He paused, considering for a moment before speaking slowly. "Nooo…I don't believe he is. Which doesn't mean he isn't dangerous to _someone_. But not _us_ , I don't think."

She stared at him in the gathering darkness. "Do you know who killed her now? Is this one of those mental leaps you make, where you know who committed the crime and just need to confirm it before you confront the murderer?"

Frustrated, he pushed a hand through his head, making it more unruly than ever. "No, I _haven't_ solved it yet. I don't yet know who the murderer _is_. I just know who he or she _isn't_."

He knew his statement was nonsensical, but he felt too tired, his brain too fogged by pain and fatigue, to make his meaning clearer. He found himself waiting for an incredulous response, a demand to explain what he meant, a refusal to go into the situation without back-up…

She stared at him for a further long moment; in the dark, he couldn't make out her expression.

"OK then."

And with that quiet agreement, she started walking along the wooden walkway in the direction that Joshua Lawrence had taken. He paused fractionally, a little touched by her trust. It was not so long ago that she would have hesitated or given Dwayne or Fidel a bewildered or amused look. These days, Camille's belief in him was so strong that she was prepared to go into a potentially dangerous situation without calling back-up first, against her better judgement.

He was as sure as he could be that there was no risk. Whoever had killed Emilia Lawrence, he was absolutely certain it was not her older half-brother. Which didn't mean that her real killer wasn't somewhere very close by…

 


	18. Chapter 18

The bungalow that Joshua Lawrence had headed towards was partly suspended over a lake on stilts. A wooden walkway led directly onto a balcony that encircled the little building. As they walked as quietly as possible around the side, Humphrey saw that it was rather like a pavilion, with a larger balcony and an open-plan area at the front, overlooking the lake. If you could ignore the patent artificiality, the outlook was quite pleasant.

The area was dimly lit, but they could see that the glass doors to the open-plan area were slid back. Joshua Lawrence was seated on the floor in front of them. He perched cross-legged with some notes on his knees that he was reading by the light from a small lamp.

He looked up at them with a smile, seeming unsurprised by their sudden appearance. "I _did_ wonder how long it would take for you to come and see me." He extended a hand rather lazily, without getting up. "You must be Detective Inspector Humphrey Goodman – am I right?"

Humphrey leaned over and shook his hand a little dubiously. "You _are_ right – and this is Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey. And _you're_ Joshua Lawrence...but you're not travelling under that name, are you?"

Joshua shook his head, appearing amused at Humphrey's suspicion. " _No_ – but, I'm not travelling on a fake passport, if that's what you're thinking. I reverted to my mother's maiden name a few years' ago. My passport gives my name as Michael Joshua Romizi, which is quite correct, as I was christened Michael Joshua. I keep Joshua Lawrence for professional purposes only, as it's how I'm known in the circles I operate in. You can call me Josh if you like."

His easy manner seemed genuine, but Humphrey continued to view him with reservation. "And how do you know _me_?"

Josh suddenly pushed his pile of notes off his lap and stood up. "I'm sorry, I'm being very rude… I'm a bit of a hermit sometimes actually, it's the nature of the job I do. I need my space and plenty of peace and quiet while I'm working. But I _do_ have _some_ manners, although my sister-in-law might dispute that…"

He grabbed his notes, moved inside the sliding doors to deposit them on a desk and pressed a switch. Ambient lighting illuminated the building, and they found themselves stepping into a large open-plan lounge/dining room area with a small kitchenette at one end of it. It was designer minimalist but quite charming for all that.

Josh Lawrence smiled as they looked around them. "Not really my style. Belongs to my brother Jules, and I don't earn enough to afford something like _this_. It's not too bad, though."

He waved casually at a framed black-and-white photograph on the wall, and they saw Julien with an attractive woman in her late thirties.  In this better representation, Humphrey could see that the older brother shared Joshua's fair colouring although his features were rather broader and more quintessentially ‘English’.

"That's Jules and his wife Ellie. She's OK – she puts up with me pretty well. And Jules still looks out for me, like any big brother would. Actually, that can be quite annoying, but it's also useful when your extremely rich older brother allows you to stay in one of his holiday homes… especially when one of them quite coincidentally happens to be in the very location that you need to travel to."

Humphrey had a better view of him in the full light. Josh Lawrence was a pleasant-looking man in his late thirties, around Humphrey's own age. He was very much his mother's son with her delicate features evident in his intelligent, good-humoured face. His voice was also pleasant but a little unusual – he was well-spoken in the way that most ex-British public schoolboys tended to be, but there was just an impression of a foreign accent in his emphasis of certain syllables. Humphrey wondered whether he'd picked up accents from travelling abroad so much. There was something quite youthful and energetic about the man but at the same time, his thin tanned face carried the creases of tropical sun exposure that made him look older than his approximately thirty-seven years.

Humphrey found himself warming towards the man, who appeared to have inherited his mother's reputed natural charm. The full force of it was currently focused on Camille as he looked at her in an appraising manner while shaking her hand. His appraisal wasn't flirtatious though; rather, it was briskly professional as if he was sizing up her qualities very quickly to decide if he could trust her. Humphrey supposed it was a skill he had cultivated during his years of investigative journalism. He evidently liked what he saw, as he smiled warmly at her and gestured towards the leather sofa.

"Can I get you a drink? I'm afraid I don't run to cocktails, but there should be some beer around here somewhere."

"It's OK, thanks." Humphrey answered for them both as he sat down next to Camille. "You didn't say how you knew me?"

Josh looked startled. "I'm surprised you need to ask. You've solved some pretty high-profile murders here, Inspector Goodman, not least that of your predecessor. The cases occasionally get reported in the UK press, especially if a Brit is involved. And I looked you up when I knew I'd be coming back here – it seemed sensible to check out the local police force. And then I recognised you down at the beach this evening, so I suspected you might want to see me. I can't change your mind about that beer?"

As they shook their heads, he turned to fetch one for himself, and Humphrey took the opportunity to glance at Camille and get her impression. She looked back at him, one eyebrow arched in a way that told him she hadn't quite made up her own mind about Josh Lawrence yet. There was something a little creepy about the way he knew Humphrey well enough to recognise him at the beach bar even though they had never met. And how had he known that they would follow him? He didn't seem that surprised to see them… and there had been the way he had paused under the lamplight and deliberately turned around so that anyone watching could see his face clearly. Had that been a signal to them to follow him?

He came back from the fridge with a beer bottle and perched on the edge of an armchair, facing them. He gave the impression of someone who wasn't used to elegant living and would have been just as comfortable sitting on an upturned crate. His appearance seemed to suggest that too; his blond hair was bleached even whiter by strong sun and his clothes, although good quality, looked creased and well-travelled.

He took a big gulp of beer and then raised his eyebrows at them. "So? I suppose you want to know why I'm here?"

"Certainly that," Humphrey responded, watching him carefully. "But we also want to know where you were between the hours of 5AM and 8AM yesterday morning.

As far as he could tell, the sudden surprise in Josh's face was quite genuine. " _Oh_ … Am _I_ under investigation then?"

"Why else would you expect us to be here? Knowing that we're police officers you must have guessed that we were investigating _something_."

"Well, _yes_ , but…" He gestured towards his pile of papers. "I assumed you had come to me for my _help_ , not… _When_ did you say?"

"Between the hours of 5 and 8 yesterday morning," Camille repeated patiently.

"OK. Well, I don't have an alibi for _all_ of that time, but I was with Emilia Lawrence for part of it." Josh put down his bottle, clearly recognising the seriousness of the matter. "My half-sister – she's here on the island with my father and his second wife. She can vouch for me…assuming she even remembers _seeing_ me," he added darkly, under his breath.

Humphrey let the final cryptic comment go for the moment. "What time was that?"

"I can't give you the _exact_ time, but I had arranged to meet her at a party. I can give you the address. I wanted to meet her there because I'm trying to stay low-key and ironically it's easier to do that in a crowded place. We were supposed to meet much earlier, around two, but I was held up. A man I was hoping to meet first kept me waiting – in fact, he messed me around so much that in the end, it was sometime after six that morning when I finally got to her." He grimaced. "She wasn't best pleased to be kept hanging around, I can tell you. I'm surprised she bothered to wait."

"How long were you with her?"

Josh paused. "Not long. About ten minutes I would guess, fifteen at the outside. I'd asked her to check out something for me and… well, let's just say that she didn't react all that well to whatever it was that she found out. I didn't get a chance to find out what."

"And where did you go after that?" Camille asked.

Josh paused. "I'm… not sure I can tell you much more without revealing why I'm here. And I don't know how much you already know about what I'm investigating…"

"Ok." Humphrey put up a hand. "We'll go into that… but first of all, how well do you know your half-sister?"  He was careful to avoid using the past tense in relation to Emilia, looking to see if Josh reacted to that in any way.  He didn’t.

"Emilia? Hardly at all, as a matter of fact. We didn't – the two branches of the family didn't exactly get on, you might say. So I knew she existed, but I never bothered to get in touch. It was only when I was investigating something related to the family and realised that she might be able to help me obtain some information that I obtained her details and contacted her. I know how bad that sounds, but frankly I was never really encouraged to keep in touch. So…I needed help and it was either her or her brother Eddie. I arranged to meet them both – casually, you know – and I could tell right off that _he_ wouldn't be reliable enough, but _she_ was a different story. So I kept in contact and we met up a couple of times in London before she came out here." He paused. "She's a nice kid – very bright. Reminds me a lot of my mother, which is odd considering they're not related."

Humphrey glanced at Camille and she gave an imperceptible nod. He leaned forward. "So I take it that you've not heard the news? Josh, I'm very sorry to be the one to tell you this, but…Emilia is dead. She died at that party, not long after meeting you."

For a moment Josh didn't react. The colour drained out of his face as he sat staring at Humphrey. And then he shook his head for a moment as if testing his hearing. He huffed out an odd little laugh and ran a shaky hand through his hair.

"I'm sorry – you'll have to… I – I didn't expect that. That can't be right… she's _dead_? Are you _sure_ it's her?"

Humphrey was quite used to people not believing the news at first and needing it to be reinforced. It was simply a stage in the psychological process. He went on, patiently: "Yes. I'm really sorry, but there's definitely no mistake."

"But – but, _how_ did it happen?  How did she…"

He seemed unable to say the words, but Camille took pity on him, leaning forward. "She was administered a drug that gave her a heart attack."

Humphrey noticed that she was careful not to give away too many details, but Josh was too much the journalist not to notice the use of the passive tense. " _Was administered_? You mean she didn't do it herself?"

"We _think_ it may have been done deliberately," she added, a little cautiously.

Josh winced. " _Jesus_. That's just so… What a _horrible_ way to die…" His voice broke and he was silent for a moment, looking at the floor. They waited quietly, not wanting to intrude on his obvious shock.

When he looked up again, although his expression was still a little dazed, his eyes were sharp. "Do you think that the person, whoever it was, actually _intended_ to kill her or did they mean to just incapacitate her for a while? I mean, was it something that would certainly have killed her immediately or some kind of recreational drug that she had a bad reaction to?"

Humphrey and Camille exchanged impressed glances, appreciating the man's intelligence. That was, in fact, a very good point… Plenty of people did survive speedball, although the risks of sudden death were much higher with the specific combination. It might have been that the perpetrator really _hadn't_ intended her to die. Could it have even been a cruel joke that went tragically wrong? Were they barking up the wrong tree? But _no_ – his detective senses were telling him that this had been set up to look like a self-administered overdose. If it _had_ been an unfortunate accident with an injected speedball, then why the amateurish attempt to hide it with a cigarette burn over the injection site?  And why go to the bother of smearing traces of the joint in her mouth?

"It's a possibility," he admitted, slowly.

" _God_ ," Josh breathed, his eyes stark and horrified. " _Emilia_ … If I had thought there was any risk, I would _never_ have…" He stopped, his eyes flying to Humphrey and Camille as the full implications hit him. " _I_ didn't kill her. You _have_ to believe me."

Humphrey looked at him for a long moment before sighing and nodding his head. "I _know_ you didn't… but you may be able to help us. You need to tell us exactly what you're investigating, in case it's related to her death."

"Of course…" Josh paused again, but they didn't push him, sensing that he needed a moment to get his thoughts together. Eventually, he sighed and looked up at them again. "I didn't know her all that well, didn't have time to, but from what I could see she was a good kid, you know? There was something about her – some kind of quality. I don't think she ever took drugs. I - I _liked_ her. _God_ , I wish _now_ that I'd known her growing up."

"Why didn't you?" Camille asked.

"Truthfully? I didn't think any good would come out of that marriage." Josh picked up his bottle and took a large swig of it. "I…well, ‘hate’ is too strong a word. I didn't trust _her_ – Emma, I mean. I guess I was just being a difficult teenage boy, resenting a new step-mother who wasn't that much older than me. Or maybe it was because Jules didn't like her either." He shook his head. "I don't know. It was an instinct. Anyway, Dad had been quite distant from the moment we left Sainte-Marie for England, so it wasn't as if she was intruding on a happy united family or anything. I was pretty much living with my grandparents by then. I met Dad and Emma a couple of times before the wedding, and then I visited a handful of times up until I was eighteen, just before University. Eddie was a toddler then and she was expecting Emilia. I didn't see her again after I went away to study. I just never went home again – not that 'home' was with them anyway, but you know what I mean. I moved on, left my family behind me. For a while, I lived abroad. I used to see Dad from time to time when we were in the same country, but he never invited me to their home again and I never asked to go."

"So…you're a finance journalist, is that right?"

"Well, more an investigative journalist. I uncover institutional corruption. It just so happens that it often concerns financial institutions."

"And your brother is head of investment at a major bank," Humphrey commented, drily. "A little awkward, isn't it?"

Josh gave a shaky smile; he was still clearly shell-shocked by the news and that, more than anything else, convinced Humphrey that he'd had nothing to do with Emilia's murder. But had he _seen_ the murderer?

"I'm not saying that Jules is any more moral than the rest of that bunch, but he keeps within the law. I'm only concerned with those who _don't_." He shrugged. "As a career, it just seemed like the way to go. I _certainly_ didn't want the City. I could have gone into the Civil Service – I'm sure Dad would have liked that – but it struck me that they seem to spend most of their time trying to maintain the status quo of colonialism and unfair privilege. I went into charity work for a while – worked as a UNICEF representative out in Egypt and Sudan – but I always had a skill for writing and I realised I might be able to reach a larger audience by going into journalism. Plus I got so frustrated with the fraud that went on in charity work – having to bribe border guards just so you could deliver the food that was going to save the lives of their own people. Drove me crazy."

"So, what happened to bring you here?"

Josh stood up suddenly. "I need another drink. You going to join me this time, Inspector, Sergeant?" he added over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen.

Humphrey paused and looked at Camille again. She seemed more relaxed, and taking that as further evidence that he could trust this man, he called out. "Yes, why not? And call me Humphrey."

Josh paused for a few moments as he dragged a low table over and deposited three beer bottles on them. He sat back and watched pensively as Humphrey and Camille helped themselves.

"OK. First of all, how much do you know about how my mother died?"

Humphrey nodded at Camille, who neatly summarised Selwyn Patterson's story. Josh listened intently and then nodded.

"I knew most of that, although some of it was new. A couple of years' ago, my Grandmother died. You need to understand that Gran and Granddad more-or-less raised us after we returned to England. We spent all my holidays from school with them. Dad either wasn't bothered or was too busy, I'm not sure which. Not that it matters."

There was a note of bitterness in his voice and Humphrey recalled that happy family photo that Patterson had shown him. Had Clive Lawrence always been that cold or had Donata's death changed him fundamentally?

"When Gran died, I was in South Africa and it took me a couple of days to fix things up and get home. I only just made the funeral. Granddad had died a few years' before, so it was just Jules, Ellie and I, really. And Dad came too, but Emma, Eddie and Emilia didn't. Gran had never liked Emma much, although I believe she was fond of Eddie and Emilia. She remembered us all in her will – she shared what she had, which wasn't an awful lot, equally between her four grandchildren. Dad didn't get anything, but I don't believe he had expected to.  He has plenty of money himself, anyway.

"Well, after the will had been read, her solicitor handed me a large A4 envelope stuffed with papers and a letter from Gran. She'd written it a few years' before, for my attention after her death. She'd agonised over it for ages but eventually thought that it was something I should know about…only she hadn't wanted to get involved because it had caused her too much pain at the time."

He stood up and walked over to the desk. His fingers fell on a pile of papers and he stood, looking at them, as if trying to make his mind up about something.

"The papers included letters from the Deputy Police Commissioner, Selwyn Patterson, addressed to my grandparents. In the first, he commiserated with them on Mum's death and said that if there was anything he could do to assist them, they were welcome to get in touch any time. Gran must have been a little suspicious about my mother's accident and must have written to him asking questions, because in the second letter, he told her that he might have some evidence that it wasn't an accident, but that he couldn't investigate without Dad's consent. He implied that there might be some difficulties and that Dad's name might be linked with a court case, and that they needed to talk to Dad and decide whether the risk was worth it before he would do anything."

He looked up at them, tapping the papers under his hand. "I have those letters right here if you need them…but it sounds as if the Commissioner has already given you the story from his point of view. Anyway, in her letter Gran said she'd talked to Granddad about it at length. She'd wanted to contact Patterson again and look further into it, but Granddad was of the view that she should just let it go. Neither of them had known Mum all that well – they'd only met her and us on a few short visits – so from his point of view, it was quite possible that she _was_ a reckless driver. Also he was suspicious of Patterson's motives. I guess he was worried about the effect on us, as well. So, after a few blistering arguments with him, she decided to put the letters away and try to forget about it. Clearly, she didn't."

He walked back over to his chair and sank heavily into it, staring at his hands.

"I began to do some digging. I guessed that Mum had found out something that could bring someone quite rich or powerful down and that she might have been silenced as a result. I looked back through the files and found out about the court case which ended in Jonathan Masters going down for financial fraud. Since it was the last case she'd worked on before leaving, I wondered whether there was some connection. I knew he'd chosen to serve his sentence in Britain, so I did some further digging and tracked him down."

He looked up at them, a faint smile on his face. "Here's the thing. Masters was released on good behaviour after two and a half years. After his release, he moved into a house in Staines under an assumed name – a large, four-bedroomed house in a fairly affluent area near the river. And yet he'd declared himself bankrupt, and he really _had_ been – he had _no_ money in any bank account when he left prison. And he never worked again. So how could he possibly afford his lifestyle?"

"Hang on a minute," Humphrey interrupted, frowning. "How on earth did you find out all this information about him?"

"I know certain people who can bypass the online security systems and retrieve any information you ask them for. There's no such thing as security for these people." He shook his head at the look on Humphrey's face. "I'm _not_ going to reveal names. Sorry. I only use my contacts to locate the information I _really_ need – and I don't exploit it. I meant no harm to Masters – he'd served his time for the crime he committed. If I had found out that he'd had no connection to my mother's death, I would have simply wished him well and made sure I destroyed everything I had on him. But it was too late for that anyway."

"Oh? Why was that?" Humphrey asked.

"Because -," Josh continued, giving them a significant look, "- by the time I'd done my investigations and was ready to confront him, Jonathan Masters was already dead."

 


	19. Chapter 19

In the silence that followed his revelation, Josh Lawrence looked at Humphrey and Camille. "I can see that Master's death is news to you. But for the few people who knew him, it wasn't a massive surprise. He hadn't exactly led a healthy life; it was amazing that he'd lasted as long as he did. According to his neighbours, he was overweight, an alcoholic, and a chain smoker. He had no close friends apart from a few mates at the local pub and the bookies – yes, he'd got into gambling again, although in a small way.

"I'd gone to see him and was told by a neighbour that he'd been found dead after she’d phoned the police – she hadn’t seen him for a few days and was getting concerned. He was found in the bath. The death certificate said it was a heart attack – and no, I'm not going to tell you how I know _that_. But I couldn't find out what the heart attack was attributed to. I got the impression that the pathologist could've put down at least half a dozen causes. I mean, there're plenty of things that could cause a heart attack…and they're not all natural, are they?

"I discovered he had a sister and that all his personal effects had gone to her. I tracked her down. I felt a bit guilty about bothering her, but she had no love for her brother. She'd been upset about the fraud conviction, but even before that, they hadn't got on. I was honest with her – I _can_ be, you know." He gave them a knowing little smile. "I make a judgement on whether the person I'm talking to will react better to honesty rather than some false story about me being an old friend of his or something. She'd have been more suspicious if I _had_ claimed friendship, since he didn't appear to have any by the time he died. When I sat down and explained exactly why I was there, she let me have his papers and his battered old laptop – she didn't want any reminders of him anyway. She told me to destroy whatever I didn't need. So I did – I burnt whatever I didn't need. And I wiped the laptop's memory clean before disposing of it.

"I found bank statements and saw that he was receiving a fairly substantial sum of money each month. The trail was carefully hidden, but I got my 'experts' on it again and was able to trace the money right back to Jessica Law. They helped me log onto his laptop and there I found a wealth of evidence. He was blackmailing Law. He knew she'd screwed him over and although he didn't say it in so many words, he implied that he knew she was guilty of murder too. So she'd got the house for him and was paying him a kind-of allowance each month – had been doing that for years. Recently, he’d been after more money and their exchanges were getting pretty heated." He gave them another significant look.

"You think she killed him?" Humphrey asked.

Josh shrugged. "It'd solve _her_ problems quickly enough, wouldn't it?"

"And you have the proof of the blackmail here with you?"

He waved casually at a stuffed folder on his desk. "But that's not all. He was…he _had_ been attempting to blackmail my father too. I found some e-mails that he'd sent not long before he died, claiming that Dad was financially involved in his illegal pyramid scheme all along and that he had proof." He frowned. "I couldn't find any replies from Dad, just some automated 'out of office' responses. Masters had had the correct e-mail address, so Dad must have seen them, surely...?"

He stood up, restlessly. "That's when I decided to contact Eddie and Emilia. I didn't expect any help from Emma and I knew my father would just dismiss any allegations I might make. But my brother and sister were an unknown quantity. I hoped I would find that at least one of them might be prepared to listen to me. Emilia was."

His face dropped at Emilia's name and he looked quite stricken. "You have to believe me when I say that I would _never_ have involved her if I'd thought there was even the slightest risk to her safety. Stupid of me to believe it was safe…especially when I suspected that _Masters_ had already been killed."

"What did you ask her to do?" asked Camille.

"I wanted her to poke around for any more information that might link Law to Mum's death. I was able to get access to the official reports – on the car, the crash site and so on – but I wondered whether Dad had kept any documents in the house here, in Sainte-Marie. In particular, whether there was any connection between him and Masters. I knew I'd never get access, but Emilia could. I wanted her to search Dad's office and get into his online files if she could. She was a little reluctant at first, but she understood why." He paused, reflectively. "I think she felt sorry for me. She didn't believe it, you see. She thought that Masters had been lying about Dad's involvement, and she thought I was wrong about Mum's death, that it really _was_ just a tragic accident. But she could see I was sincere and she wanted to help, if only to prove that there was no such evidence."

"And she found something?"

Josh paused again. "She _said_ she had. She didn't sound very happy about it when she told me."

Humphrey leaned forward. "When was that? And how did she contact you?"

"She rang me up last Saturday – about ten in the morning. She had my mobile number. She wouldn't go into details over the phone; said she wanted me to meet her down at the tennis club in Honore that morning. I couldn't go; I was on the other side of the island tracking down the mechanic who recovered Mum's car. He's retired and quite hard to get hold of, and I was hot on the trail." He shook his head. "As it turned out, it was a waste of time. His mind's gone, he couldn't even remember his daughter's name, let alone the condition of a car that ditched over a cliff twenty five years' ago… And Emilia said she couldn't meet me that afternoon because she had to go to some party with her parents -."

"Wait a minute," Humphrey interrupted. "How did she sound on the phone?"

"It's hard to say for certain as I didn't know her that well…but I would say she sounded a bit disturbed. Confused. She'd certainly found _something_ that worried her. And she was talking quietly – she didn't want to be overheard by anyone."

"And later? When you _did_ meet? Why did it take so long?"

"Well, as I say, she had to go to this big party at the Residency – said she couldn't get out of it without her parents being suspicious. I'd managed to make contact with a man who'd worked for Law at the time of my Mum's death. Someone told me he had a grudge against her because she'd dismissed him without notice. I was hoping I might be able to bribe him into helping me infiltrate her organisation. He left a message telling me to meet him at that party, so I suggested that Emilia turn up there as well. I didn't realise it'd be such a dive, I wouldn't have suggested it if I had."

"What's the name of the man you arranged to meet?"

"Well, in _theory_ , his name is Pascal Combierre, but in reality – who knows? He wasn't the only one bearing a grudge against Law – she's in the habit of dismissing people for apparently minor transgressions. She seems to have an extraordinary ability to make enemies. In terms of appearance, he was Black, about mid-forties, a small, skinny kind of guy. No more than 5 foot 5, I would say. Put me in mind of a rat - cunning and a bit sneaky – you know?"

Humphrey and Camille exchanged glances. For a minute, he'd had had a notion that Nieto could be conveniently placed at the same location and time of Emilia's death, and clearly Camille had had the same idea. But if Josh's description was accurate, 'Pascal' couldn't be him.

"Anyway," Josh carried on, "- the guy messed me around a bit. He wasn't even _at_ the party and when I rang him, he kept telling me to meet me somewhere else. When I finally ran him down, he was stoned and uncooperative anyway. I could tell it would be a waste of time; even when sober, he'd probably just take my money and run. So, I returned to the party and texted Emilia again. I think it was around six then – I seem to remember noticing the time on my mobile and being surprised because I didn't realise I'd spent the entire night running after that lowlife."

He paused for a long moment, staring at his hands. In the end, Camille prompted him. "So, you met her then? And she wasn't happy about being kept waiting all night?"

Josh grimaced. "No, she wasn't, and I don't blame her. I'm just amazed that she waited that long without giving up on me. She must have been really worried about whatever it was that she'd found. But I didn't even get a chance to find out what. She laid into me, accusing me of trying to implicate our father in my mother's death." He shook his head. "She – she was almost _wild_. Came up with the most extreme accusations. That I'd planted fake evidence, that I had a pathological hatred of my father and wanted to destroy him. She wasn't behaving like the Emilia I knew at all. It was almost as if she was under the influence of a drug or something – oh _God_ …" He trailed off, a look of horror on his face. "Had she been drugged before I even met her?"

Humphrey gave Camille another look. "Quite likely. We believe it was something slow–acting. Did she show any particular symptoms?"

Josh dragged a shaking hand across his mouth. "I’ve no personal experience of the effects of illegal drugs apart from the occasional spliff, but… it might explain things. She was sweating a lot and her eyes were kind-of unfocused. I didn't get the impression that she was even hearing what I said. She – she just laid into me for about ten minutes and then screamed at me to leave her alone. I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn't listen, so in the end I left. I thought – well, to be honest, I _did_ think she might have used drugs or alcohol or both. I was surprised and a bit disappointed because I didn't think she was the type, but then I didn't know her all that well. For all I knew, she could be a hard partier when she had the opportunity. It never _occurred_ to me that there might be another reason. She didn't seem distressed, just majorly pissed off.”

He gave a shuddering sigh.  " _God_ , I – I wish I hadn't left her. If I'd stayed a bit longer…well, I might have noticed that there was something wrong. But my presence seemed to be making her worse. And also she'd said that Eddie was there and threatened to call him – not that I was scared of _him_ , but I didn't want some massive row that would get back to Dad and Emma. I was still trying to keep my presence on the island a secret. I thought it might be best to leave her alone and contact her the next day, when she'd calmed down a bit. But now I _really_ wish I hadn't made that decision."

He sounded wretched, and Camille leaned forward and touched his hand briefly with instinctive sympathy.

"You _mustn't_ dwell on it, Josh. Even if you had been there, you might not have been able to do anything. The pathologist thinks that she died very quickly and probably without much warning." Her voice was gentle but determined. "What you can do for Emilia _now_ is help us find her killer. You may have seen something at the party that can help us."

He looked at her for a moment before nodding gratefully. "Thanks. The really stupid thing is that I don't normally work with anyone because I'm always conscious of putting someone at risk. I guess I got a bit desperate. And Emilia seemed like someone I could work with – which was why I was a bit shocked to see her so…out of control. It didn't seem like her."

"It wasn't," Humphrey said, firmly. "Which reinforces my suspicion that the drug was administered earlier in the evening, and she could have reacted to it at any time. She could have died before you even met her; it was pure chance that the drug didn't cause the reaction until afterwards. The question _is_ , was _that_ why she was drugged – to stop her revealing what she knew to you? Or just a coincidence?"

"Also -," Camille put in, "- if the killer is willing to risk Emilia's life to stop her giving something away, wouldn't he or she be prepared to do the same to Josh? Particularly if they think that he might have that information?"

Josh ran a hand through his hair. "But what I _don't_ get is how they linked her to me in the first place? We've been very discreet about meeting up, especially here on the island. I often work undercover; I know how to avoid detection and spot when I'm being watched… as you probably noticed tonight," he added.

They were silent for a moment and then Camille spoke. "She must have given something away. You said she sounded confused – distressed even – when she phoned you on Saturday morning. And she was in a public place when she rang. Anyone could have over-heard her, and she might not have noticed."

Humphrey frowned. "Possibly. It all seems a bit coincidental though. Someone who is related to Donata's death and possibly Masters' also just _happens_ to be in the vicinity and overhears Emilia saying something that could relate to anything…what did she say exactly?"

Josh pulled his phone out of his pocket. "You can listen for yourself. I have a device in this phone which automatically records all phone calls, just in case I need some evidence."

He tapped on the screen to find the conversation he wanted and then held it out to Humphrey, who took it dubiously. "Bit unethical, isn't it? Recording people's conversations without them knowing?"

Josh gave him a pitying look. "It happens more than you think. Just press there."

Humphrey did so and lifted the receiver to his ear. Camille leaned in and he angled the phone so that she could hear too. They listened intently to a young woman's voice. "I've done what you asked. It wasn't easy, though -."

Josh's voice cut over hers, eagerly. "Did you find anything I could use?"

There was a silence on the line. Straining, Humphrey fancied he could hear a few echoing noises in the background. There was the sound of distant voices and a door slammed.

When the girl spoke again, she sounded distracted. "Um – maybe. I don't know. I think there's something, but I can't make my mind up. You need to come here; I need to speak to you."

"Where are you?" came Josh's voice.

Another silence, and then they heard the woman’s voice slightly indistinctly, appearing to speak to someone else. "OK, just a minute…" And then, a little clearly: "Sorry, that was - never mind. Can you meet me at the tennis club in Honore?"

Now a pause at Josh's end. "I can't get there right away, I'm not in Honore - ."

"Oh, for -." Emilia sounded frustrated. "You have – I can't – _look_ , I can't talk right now…"

"Can you meet me this afternoon?"

"No, that's not –." Again, there was a moment where she seemed to be interrupted by someone. They couldn't make out the conversation, just two voices talking, their voices rising slightly as if in argument.  There were some background noises again, including an odd loud noise that Humphrey couldn’t place.  A car alarm going off, perhaps?

"I think she must have muffled her phone to talk to someone else -," Josh began, but Camille shushed him urgently as Emilia's voice came through stronger once more, speaking very quickly.

"I can't meet this afternoon - there's a party at the Residency, and I have to go. Text me a location this evening and I'll do my best."

The line went dead before Josh could reply. Camille took the phone from Humphrey, fiddled with it and listened to the conversation again. She walked away from them out onto the balcony to listen more carefully.

Humphrey watched her leaning on the rail, her back to him as she focused. He could tell by her stiff posture that she was focusing carefully. She took the phone from her ear and reset the call before listening again. He spoke quietly, not wanting to distract her. "It certainly sounds as if one person at least was there, and she didn't want them to listen to her conversation. Sounds as if they might have been arguing too – but that might be unrelated."

"It's a female voice, the other one," Camille confirmed as she came back into the room, returning the phone to Josh. "Definitely. Quite high-pitched, although that might have been from anger or some other emotion."

"One of her friends?"

"Maybe." But Camille didn't sound too convinced. She was frowning and staring into space, distracted.

Humphrey looked at her for a moment, but nothing else seemed forthcoming. Sometimes it was wise to leave Camille to think something through without interruption, so he turned to Josh and ushered him out onto the balcony.

"Our first priority is to discover what Emilia discovered that disturbed her so much," he said in a low voice. "Although actually, that's our _second_ – the _first_ is to make sure that you're not about to become the next victim. I don't think you should stay here alone."

Josh laughed scornfully. "If you think it's the first time my life has been in danger, you're quite wrong. I've coped before and I'll cope now."

"They may have tracked you here. I really think you'd be safer coming with us -."

"To where? Are you going to take me into custody? Do you really think I'd be safer in prison if someone wants to bump me off? I'd be better off disappearing."

"He has a point." Camille had come to join them on the balcony.

"Well, then, you could come and stay with me at the beach house. It'd be safer than staying here, anyway. No one knows we're here, so they won't connect you with me."

"Unless they're watching us right now." Camille shuddered as she looked around at the dark lake. The bungalow's lights were subtle, but against the black backdrop, the three of them must stand out like a beacon.

Humphrey felt her nervousness run through his own body. "Come _on_ , Josh. Let's get out of here to somewhere safe. We can go through what you've found out in more detail and see if we can find any more clues between the three of us."

Josh considered Humphrey for a moment before nodding. "Alright. That seems sensible and I'm not planning on staying here anyway, just in case. It's a bit too isolated. Give me a minute."

They watched as he went back into the lounge. He gathered together the notes and files scattered across the desk and stuffed them in a battered old duffel bag. He disappeared with it into the back of the bungalow, presumably to collect clothes and toiletries.

Humphrey pulled Camille down the side of the bungalow so they were out of the direct light coming from the lounge. He could see no signs of light or movement anywhere; the other bungalows clustered around the water seemed to be empty. It was eerily quiet here among the trees. Not far away, just on the other side of the hotel, the evening would just be warming up for the tourists at the beach bars, but on this side, there was nothing but silence.

Camille leaned slightly against him; the warmth of her arm against his was a comfort. "I'm not sure about that woman's voice on the phone call," she said quietly. "It sounded familiar but I couldn't place it."

"Not Jessica Law?" he asked, but she shook her head, her hair tickling his cheek.

"I've never heard her speak. I'm not sure – I listened to it a couple more times. The other thing is that Josh assumed she was at the tennis club when she called him, but if you notice, she didn't actually _say_ that. Just that he should meet her there as soon as possible. I've listened carefully, but I can't hear anything that suggests she's _definitely_ at the tennis club."

"OK." Humphrey sighed. "This case gets more and more complicated. Camille, we're not barking up the wrong tree, are we? What if it _was_ just an accidental overdose? The evidence does seem to point to Law…but it seems a bit coincidental for her to kill a girl who may or may not have found some new evidence. I'm not sure what to think."

She shifted against him, her hand slipping into his. It seemed like an almost automatic act of intimacy from her now; something had changed in the dynamic between them since the boathouse yesterday. Despite his concern, he couldn't stop the automatic thrill running through his body; the by-now familiar question: _what does this mean_?

"I don't think you're wrong," she said. "I know what you mean – it _could_ be just a coincidence, but..."

Suddenly, the lights went off. All was silent; they couldn't hear Josh's footsteps coming towards them, but Camille stiffened suddenly and grabbed Humphrey's arm.

"There's someone rowing on the lake," she whispered urgently. " _Listen_!"

He caught a quiet _splish_ of an oar in the water fairly close by, but he couldn't make out anything in the darkness. Instinctively, he pushed in front of Camille, conscious of her bright red dress standing out in the darkness. She grabbed the back of his jacket and pulled him back along the walkway and into the shadows of the trees on the bank. They peered at the water, trying to make out any movement.

"Where's Josh?" Humphrey whispered. "Is it him on the lake?"

"No." The quiet voice came from behind, making Camille and Humphrey jump. Josh appeared in the trees, wearing a dark jacket and carrying his duffel bag. He scanned the water and beckoned to them urgently.

They slipped through the trees along the bank, trying to move as quickly and quietly as possible. At a safe distance from the bungalow, they halted and walked towards the water's edge, looking back along the lake's shore towards the balcony.

From this angle, they could see the dark shape of a boat just beneath the balcony. A single figure dressed in black jumped over the rail, landing on the balcony with a quiet thud.

"I thought I heard something," Josh whispered. "So I put out the lights and then climbed through the window at the back."

As they watched, the slim figure walked towards the open door of the lounge. At that moment, the moon appeared above the palm trees and shone brightly, glittering on the gun being held in a gloved hand.

"OK," Humphrey muttered. " _Not_ such a coincidence, then."

 


	20. Chapter 20

As they watched, the figure's shape blended with the dark outline of the bungalow. He or she was obviously inside the building; Josh hadn't had time to lock the sliding doors leading into the lounge before making his escape out of the bedroom at the back.

"Did you leave anything behind?" It was a silly thing for Humphrey to say, but Josh understood his meaning and shook his head.

"All in here." He tapped his duffel bag. "Photocopies of everything, and I also have the documents saved on my IPAD. There are copies on a hard drive in my brother's safe back in London, just in case."

Humphrey took a few deep breaths; he was a little out of breath from the dash through the woods. He was by no means unfit, but it had been a struggle with his stiff leg. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Camille shushed him. "Look – he's coming out again."

The black-clad figure emerged onto the balcony and came towards the rail on their side, peering intently across the water. They backed up a little, getting behind the bank of scrub that lined the shore. Suddenly, a flare of light from a powerful torch was played across the bank.

Camille and Josh immediately flung themselves to the ground behind the scrub. Humphrey followed a little more slowly, but thankfully managed to get under cover just as the light played across their location. As he lay on his stomach, an agonisingly sharp pain shot up his injured leg. He covered his mouth with an arm and breathed deeply through his nose, trying to control the rush of nausea that followed close behind.

The strong beam swept slowly across the woods from one side to the other three times before disappearing altogether as the figure turned towards the opposite bank. He breathed a sigh of relief but stayed down, pressing his cheek into the dust. The nausea was starting to recede, but he felt too shaky to move immediately.

After a few moments, Camille raised her head a few centimetres before getting up onto her hands and knees to crawl a little closer to the shore. She stood up cautiously and peered at the bungalow before motioning with her hand. Josh and Humphrey also stood and crept over to her.

The figure had got back in the boat and was rowing it across a corner of the lake, away from them.

"He's heading for that pier." Camille whispered, watching intently. "Quick, lend me your jacket."

"Why on earth?" Humphrey was struggling out of his jacket even as he spoke.

She grabbed it off him without taking her eyes off the rower and put it on, pulling it right around her body to partially cover her bright dress. She removed the car keys from her handbag and held them out towards him without taking her eyes off the figure.

"Here – take the keys and get back to the jeep. I'll meet you there as soon as I can, but if you're worried about Josh's safety, go on ahead."

"Where are you going?"

"To follow him." She began to move towards the shore line, but he grabbed her arm.

"You _can't_ – he's armed and probably not afraid to shoot!"

She pulled her arm out of his grasp. "I'm not going to _confront_ him – just trail him as far as I can and see if I can get a better look - ."

"Not a chance!" He dodged in front of her, whispering urgently. "That's an _order_ , Camille. It's incredibly dangerous, if anyone should go, it ought to be me -."

"What, with your injured knee? _Come on_ – we're wasting time!" She glanced towards the figure on the opposite bank. He tied the boat up and then jumped out, hurrying down the wooden pier to the shore.

"Look, _you_ were the one who wanted to call back-up earlier -."

" _Stop it_ , Humphrey!" she hissed, angrily, pushing him away. "I _know_ what I'm doing. _Trust me_."

She darted out of his reach and began to run lightly through the woods, keeping just behind the scrub on the shore line.

" _Dammit, Camille_!" he whispered furiously, but she was already gone. In his dark jacket, she was harder to see and was making hardly any sound at all, moving fluidly over the rough ground despite her high-heeled sandals. Humphrey strained his eyes watching her as far as the bungalow before she darted around the shore side of it and disappeared from sight. He looked back at the figure on the other side, just in time to see it disappearing into the trees.

"She seems to know what she's doing," Josh said, quietly, as he watched Camille disappear. "Ex-Secret Service, is she?"

"Something like that." He had to force the words out, almost too angry to speak for a minute, and took a deep calming breath. How _dare_ she ignore a direct order! It was utterly _foolhardy_ to rush after an armed and possibly dangerous man, it went against all their training, and she just... "Come on, we'd better get back to the jeep."

After a last look at the shoreline, he led Josh back towards the bungalow. Since the person had definitely left, it seemed sensible for Josh to at least lock it up and make sure all was secure, so they crept back along the walkway and onto the balcony.

Josh's face was blank when he turned the light on and observed the mess. Books and papers lay strewn across the floor and the desk drawers had been pulled out and emptied. In the short time that he had been in the bungalow, the intruder had certainly done a thorough job of ransacking the place.

"There's nothing related to the case here – it'll be Jules' stuff. I'll sort it out when I'm back." He switched the light off again, shut the door and locked it. "So…where's your car parked?"

Humphrey had been considering which way would be best to go; he had a basic idea of where the jeep was, but wasn't entirely sure of the route from here, and he didn't want to lead Josh right to the gunman. His plan had been to walk back to the hotel and work out a route from there, but when he explained where they had parked the jeep, Josh took the lead. He confidently led them along small dark paths zigzagging through the resort until they emerged on the road close to the main gates. The jeep was parked nearby.

As they got in, Humphrey debated whether to call back-up. It was procedure for any suspect carrying a weapon but, on the other hand, he didn't want to risk Camille's safety. Even as he was agonising over his next move, one of the car's back doors opened suddenly.

It was Camille, panting with exertion and a little dishevelled.

"I cut back through the scrub to catch up with you," she explained as she got her breath back. "He caught me out – headed towards the hotel and I really thought he was going to go in, but then he skirted around the side, through the woods. He had a little speedboat, around the corner from the main bay. Headed off in the general direction of Honore… Do you want me to drive?" she added after a pause.

"I can manage, thank you," Humphrey replied stiffly, and turned on the engine. The car was a manual and it would have far more sensible to have given up the driver's seat to Camille, but he was still furious with her for ignoring his orders. He crashed the gears a couple of times but, gritting his teeth against the pain, managed to drive them back to the beach house without any major incidents.

They were silent during the journey. Josh was fiddling with his smartphone and Camille was very quiet in the back, possibly sensing her boss's anger. Humphrey pulled up and jerked back the handbrake with a greater-than-necessary force.

"OK, here we are. Home sweet home…for the duration," he added, drily.

Josh gave the beach house an interested look as he got out of the car. Looking at it again through a newcomer's eyes, Humphrey had a better understanding of why poor Richard had been so appalled when he'd first arrived (according to his diary). With the tree growing right through the building, it didn't look strong enough to withhold the tropical storms that occasionally battered the coast here. He couldn't help wondering why Poole hadn't just insisted on being housed in an air-conditioned hotel until more comfortable permanent accommodation had been found for him. When Humphrey had arrived, he'd been too jet-lagged and too busy being plunged into the mystery surrounding Richard's death to pay much attention. Later on he'd been charmed by the place, especially its stunning views of the perfectly crescent-shaped bay. He had a feeling that his temporary house guest would also appreciate the unusual building's qualities.

In any case, Josh dumped his bag on the floor of the terrace and sank into one of the chairs with the casual air of a man who didn't much care where he was accommodated, as long as there was a cold beer involved. As Humphrey went into the kitchen to locate some, Camille followed him in.

"So… Would you mind telling me what _that_ was about?" she asked quietly, propping her hip against a cupboard and folding her arms.

"What _what_ was about?" he responded, not looking at her as he rifled in the fridge.

The silence was poignant. "You know what I mean," she said, eventually, and the quiet anger in her voice riled him.

" _Camille_!" He dropped the beers in the sink and turned to her, unconsciously mirroring her pose. "You ignored a _direct order_ by following an armed suspect, which was an incredibly dangerous thing to do -."

She snorted at that. " _Dangerous_? To _you_ , maybe. You think I haven't dealt with worse than that in my time?" She shook her head furiously, corkscrew curls falling from her elaborate hair-do, which had taken the brunt of her urgent dash through the scrub.

"That's not the _point_! I'm still your superior officer and you should do as I say -."

" _Not_ when your judgement is impaired," she snapped. "I am your DS, it is _my_ job to challenge you when you are wrong. And this time you _were_ wrong to try to stop me."

He stared at her in complete disbelief before laughing. "Oh, that's just _typical_ of you, Camille. Do whatever you want, don't listen to 'stupid Humphrey' who doesn't know any better… Well, I'll tell you something – you wouldn't look so clever if I had you up on an official warning for ignoring the orders of your direct superior, would you now?"

"You'd never do it," she replied, suddenly calm in the face of his anger.

"Oh, _wouldn't_ I? Just _try_ me – go on!" He leaned his face close to hers. "Try my patience just a bit too much, and see what happens."

She shook her head, confidently. "That would be petty and vindictive of you -."

"It has _nothing to do_ with vindictiveness!"

He realised that his voice had risen in agitation and tried to calm himself, stepping back a little. He was feeling utterly shattered, as if the adrenaline that had carried him thus far had suddenly evaporated into nothing. "Look, of _course_ I'm not going to report you, but you have to see my point of view. I don't want to be heavy-handed, but I have to think of the safety of my officers. I was _worried_ for you. I didn't get to DI level without knowing how to assess _exactly_ when the risk is justified, and when it's better to wait for backup -."

" _Really_? Then why didn't you stop me chasing after that armed robber down at the harbour two weeks after we met? Remember that? You knew there was a risk to the public and you _knew_ I could handle it because you'd read my file." Her face softened. "There _was_ no risk to me tonight - no more than normal. I'm not an ordinary Sergeant, Humphrey, you know that. Don't forget how many years of undercover work I have behind me. I _know_ how to follow a suspect without being caught. You have to trust me in those situations…you _used_ to trust me. You can't start treating me differently because -."

She broke off suddenly and peered at his face in concern. "Actually, you look – well, you look quite _awful_."

"Well, thanks a _lot_ for that." His thoughts were whirling – what did she mean about him treating her differently?

"No, I mean -." She laid her fingers on his forehead and he flinched away from their coolness. " _Humphrey_ , you're burning up! How do you feel?"

His head was throbbing and his face was alternately burning and icy. The shooting pains in his leg were making him feel quite nauseous. "I… I just need to sit down."

"Here -," she took his hand and led him out onto the terrace, pushing him down into a chair. On a second trip, she brought a beer to Josh, who was rifling through his notes at the table, but for Humphrey she brought a bottle of cold water and a glass instead.

"You've obviously got a temperature," she scolded as she poured him a glass. "Did the doctor give you any medication?"

"Um – antibiotics and some antipyretics," he admitted, sheepishly. He was supposed to take an antibiotic every eight hours, but he'd forgotten about them since this morning.

Under his direction, she located the paper bag containing his drugs from the hospital and brought it over to him, angrily. "No wonder you are ill if you are not taking them! I suspect you have an infection in that knee."

"You could be right." He swallowed the pills and leaned back in his chair, fanning his face a little ineffectually. It was a humid night with very little of the usual refreshing breeze that cooled his house in the evenings. At least he was out of his thick jacket – Camille had still been wearing it and had hung it up the moment they had returned.

She had returned with a cold cloth, which she handed to him to mop his face. "Frankly, Humphrey, it amazes me that you've survived up to now. _Maman_ would be horrified. If she were here now, she would be sending you to bed and feeding you up with chicken soup."

"Lucky she isn't, then," he muttered, although going to bed to sleep it off sounded like a brilliant idea – probably for about three days. To take his mind off his problems, he looked over at his unexpected guest.

"Um, Josh, were you planning on visiting your father, after what's happened to Emilia?"

Josh had given up going through his files and was staring dejectedly at the sea. At Humphrey's question, he grimaced. "Do you really think that's a good idea? He's hardly going to want to see _me_ at the moment, having just lost his daughter. And if he suspects I had anything to do with it…"

"I agree," Humphrey said, quickly. "I was going to say the same – best if you lie low until we've had a chance to investigate." He glanced at Camille, who was leaning against the railing observing them both. "We need to get into the Lawrences' house again, first thing tomorrow. We've got to find out what Emilia discovered."

She looked quizzical. "So we’ll conduct a full search?"

"Yes, we'll get a search permit from the Commissioner – I don't care if Lawrence is a friend of his. There's definitely something fishy going on – why would Emilia be so upset about something that happened years before she was born? This is not just about whether he did or didn't _knowingly_ invest in something dodgy – there's more to it than that. She sounded worried on the phone… And let's see if we can identify that boat you saw tonight. Did it have any distinguishing features? It might be at the harbour – give Dwayne the best description you can and get him to check it out."

He pulled his chair over to the table. "OK, Josh, can you talk me through your evidence?"

Josh worked his way through the documents efficiently, outlining the facts he had given them earlier with the background evidence. Humphrey, listening carefully, began to feel a little better as the drugs kicked in, reducing his temperature and the pain in his knee.

One thing that became clear was that the journalist was the perfect researcher. He seemed to have an ability to hone in on the most significant facts – the salient data on various bank statements, letters and e-mails was circled and annotated in a neat hand. On his iPad, he had created a detailed timeline running from the initial investigation into Master's ill-fated pyramid scheme right through to the ex-criminal's death, with dates and times given for conversations and transfers of money. He'd even noted the times that his father had been in the UK – Humphrey raised his eyes at that; did Josh suspect his own father of involvement in Master's death? Still, it was quite obvious that Jessica Law was being blackmailed by her former associate, and Humphrey made a mental note to e-mail one of his contacts at the Met in the morning to ask him to locate a copy of the man's death certificate.

After an hour or so of further discussion, Josh yawned and stood up suddenly. "I'm sorry," he said, apologetically. "I haven't been sleeping all that well lately. I think my all-nighters have been catching up with me, and I desperately need some shut-eye. You sure you don't mind me staying here?" he added, tentatively.

Humphrey shook his head as he heaved himself out of his chair. "I think it's probably a good idea for you to be out of the way for a while…as long as you don't mind sleeping on the floor. I feel terrible saying that, and almost any other night I would be happy to let you have the bed, but frankly I think the floor may kill me right now."

"There might be an airbed," Camille said, suddenly. "I would sleep on it occasionally when I stayed here with Richard - I mean after a case when it was too late to drive home, and during that storm I told you about…" she added quickly, not quite meeting Humphrey's eyes.

She disappeared around the corner of the terrace, heading for a small shed located nearby. Humphrey rarely ventured into it unless he wanted some tools. It seemed to mainly contain bits and pieces of science equipment, some of it probably relating to Richard's home-based forensic experiments, and he didn't fancy inadvertently blowing himself up. After a minute, Camille emerged with a canvas pack and a look of triumph on her face.

"Told you." She opened the canvas bag and pulled out a rolled-up mattress that automatically inflated as it opened. "Good, isn't it? I think Richard must have been a boy scout at some point. He had a real interest in this kind of equipment. Anything that saved time – you know?" She paused reflectively. "I wasn't even sure it was still here. It came from Britain, but I suppose it was overlooked when the rest of his possessions were packed up…"

Josh stood by awkwardly as she made up the bed for him in a corner of the lounge. "Thanks, Camille, that's great. Much more comfortable than some places I've slept in."

She smiled at him and stepped out onto the terrace again. Humphrey followed her out, a little concerned about her travelling home so late – irrationally so, since she'd made the journey alone on many occasions, quite often in the middle of the night. He didn't seem to be able to put his fears into words, but he knew that if Josh was not there, he'd have invited her to sleep on the airbed instead… His cheeks burned at the idea of inviting Camille to stay the night.

She turned to face him at the steps. "To return to our earlier conversation, you must not be concerned for me. I can look after myself. I am a police officer, after all, and with special security training."

"I know." He swallowed thickly. "I can't help it, though."

"And that worries me. I am still your sergeant, whatever else I might be... You cannot treat me differently. Supposing I was Dwayne or Fidel back there tonight? – although perhaps _that_ is not a good comparison… Suppose I was another female ex-secret agent, a colleague that you did not know so well…would you have reacted the same way?"

"I suppose not," he admitted. His leg was aching again and he shifted awkwardly, grasping the rail to steady himself.

She stood looking up at him silently for a minute, the breeze ruffling her hair gently. In the darkness, he couldn't quite make out her expression.

Suddenly, she moved, putting a hand over his as it lay on the railing. "We need to talk – the two of us." Her voice was warm, even a little amused. "When this is over…don't you think?"

He nodded, not quite trusting his voice.

"Goodnight, Humphrey." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek lingeringly before turning and going down the steps onto the sand.

He stood at the rail, watching her walk away through the darkness.

 


	21. Chapter 21

Humphrey's sleep was fitful. As he tossed and turned, his dreams were full of the kind of images that often haunted him during a difficult case – of running and running and never being quite fast enough to catch someone or something undefinable. Blurred faces and words flashed in front of his inner eye with such speed that he was unable to make sense of them. And, all the time, he kept stumbling towards some unknown goal, his heart pounding and his legs heavy and awkward.

At one point, he had a perfectly clear vision of Camille ahead of him, looking back over her shoulder, but with the same expression of bemused contempt that had been on her face on the day they had met. Sally laughed at him briefly; he could distinctly hear her familiar light peal of laughter, with no specific edge of cruelty. Against all logic, Selwyn Patterson leaned across his desk, looking at Humphrey very seriously, before being replaced with the smiling face of Donata Lawrence from the old photograph. This faded to be replaced by an image of the current Mrs Lawrence's tear-stained face, but only briefly as Humphrey awoke with a jump and a distinct feeling that he was missing something fundamental.

He sat up, letting out an involuntary groan at the thumping in his head. He felt hot – hotter than normal – and his heart seemed to pound in sympathy with the pulsing pain in his leg.

"You OK there, Humphrey?"

Josh stuck his head through the archway leading into the kitchen area. For a moment, Humphrey gaped stupidly at the man, having forgotten about his overnight guest.

"Oh – er, hi. Um…yes." He moved his leg experimentally and winced. "I think I've picked up an infection in this leg though. I keep forgetting about the antibiotics."

Reluctant to remove it completely in case he made matters worse, he lifted the top of the tight dressing that covered his lower leg from knee to ankle. As the gauze lifted away, he could see that the top of the gash looked swollen and discoloured.

Josh grimaced. "Don't ask me to do anything, I'm rubbish with blood. I hope you don't mind but I'm just making myself a coffee. Want some?"

"Thanks." Humphrey carefully replaced the bandage and got out of bed, shuffling towards the kitchen in the t-shirt and shorts he normally wore for bed. "Sorry about that, I'm a terrible host at the best of times. Did you sleep well?"

"Yep, not too bad. Mind you, I'm used to sleeping pretty much anywhere."

Rather annoyingly, Josh was looking as fresh as a daisy. His hair was wet and slicked back from his face and he was wearing swimming shorts with a towel around his shoulders. At Humphrey's enquiring look, he explained: "I've just been for a morning swim. It's beautiful – you're very lucky to live here."

Humphrey shrugged, feeling irrationally pleased. It was true that each morning, as he went out onto his balcony and saw that extraordinary view, he thanked whatever deity it was that had put him in the way of this post. If Patterson ever gave him the push, there was absolutely _no way_ he would go back to London now. He couldn't bear the idea of that damp, grey place…

At the thought of the Commissioner getting rid of him, he sobered immediately. He didn't _think_ Patterson was the vengeful type, but for everyone's sake, he needed to solve this case as quickly and as discreetly as possible.

Josh passed him a cup of coffee. Humphrey took a gulp of the hot liquid and grimaced at the bitter taste.

"No good?" Josh gave him an enquiring look, not remotely insulted by his reaction. "I'm not great at coffee – Jules is always complaining that I make it too strong or something…"

"No, it's not that." There was an odd taste in his mouth; his tongue felt dry and too big. He had a feeling that nothing would taste right today. Even his stomach clenched and tried to expel the small amount of liquid he had taken. He took a deep breath in through his nose to repress the nausea and then shivered despite the heat.

"You look a bit crap to be honest." The journalist was looking concerned now. "Don't you think you should see a doctor?"

"Later. I need to get to the station first."

Josh shrugged. "Up to you. Anything I can do to help?"

"No – though actually, wait a minute. Yes, there _is_ something you could do if you don't mind coming in with me."

"Sure." Josh disappeared into the bathroom.

Humphrey chucked away the rest of his coffee, retrieved a cold bottle of water from the fridge, swallowed his pills and downed most of the water in one go. It seemed to clear his head enough for him to be able to wash and get dressed in good time for Camille.

When she arrived to collect him, he was able to summon up a brisk, airy manner before she could ask him how he was feeling. "Ah, excellent, Camille. Let's go to the station first; there are a few things I need to check out. Josh is going to help out."

Face professionally blank, she led the way to the jeep. He limped after her, fiddling with his mobile as he went. Hopefully he still had her contact details saved… _ah_ , yes, there they were...

Camille gave him a curious look as he began, rather laboriously, to type out a text on his smartphone. "Who are you contacting?"

"Serena Hope. She's a forensic pathologist at UCH." He paused, frowning in thought before typing again. "Um – she and I developed quite a friendship over the years."

"Oh, _did_ you?" Her voice was flat and deliberately disinterested, but he caught the slight edge to it even so.

"Not like that! Only that we kept coinciding at crime scenes. Well, it was like that at the Met – every detective had his pet pathologist, someone that we all hoped would be on duty at the right time."

The silence was telling. In the back, Josh snorted but said nothing.

"I should add -," he continued, carefully, "- that she's in her mid-sixties and very much looking forward to retirement next year, when she'll be moving to the Cotswolds with her husband and several dogs."

There was another silence before she said. "And why would _I_ be interested in knowing that?"

He glanced at her quickly; her face was straight but her lips were twitching.

"I can't imagine," he replied, drily. "But anyway, I want her to dig up Masters' post mortem report for me. Let's see if there was anything specific that caused that heart attack."

He clicked on the 'send' button and looked around at Josh. "I was wondering how you felt about digging through about half a tonne of ratty-looking paperwork to try to find something of interest? Fidel has probably made a start, but there's a lot to check."

The journalist looked a little pained but nodded. "OK, I'll give it a go. Can you fill me in?"

Humphrey explained about Ernest Nieto and the pile of invoices and other paperwork that had been boxed up the previous day. He was just finishing as they arrived at the police station.

Fidel was already at his desk. "Bit of news, boss! Interpol just rang. They've picked up Nieto and the Le Fondre boys at Pointe-a-Pitre airport, just about to check in on a flight to Miami. They're bringing them back right now – should be here by six."

"Excellent." Humphrey rubbed his hands together just as Dwayne came into the station. "OK, listen up. First of all – Fidel, Dwayne, meet Josh Lawrence. Josh, meet Fidel and Dwayne. He's given us some useful information and I've brought him here to help with something else. We have a clear suspect in the Masters' case – _sorry_ , I mean Emilia. Well, _both_ … And there's more than one suspect…"

He stopped and shook his muzzy head, trying to clear it. His shirt was already stuck to his back and he felt hot and shivery. Dimly, he was aware that his junior officers were staring at him in some confusion.

"Um, sorry." He tried again. "We have _three_ possible suspects. Let's have a look at this."

Camille brought the noticeboard out, with its pictures of various Lawrences, alongside Donata and Law. In the absence of a photograph, he grabbed a post-it note, scribbled 'Jonathan Masters' on it and stuck it on the noticeboard, drawing linking lines to Clive Lawrence and Jessica Law.

"OK, so Jessica Law and Clive Lawrence were both victims of attempted blackmail by Jonathan Masters, who may or may not have been murdered in Britain. I'm trying to find that out. Law has the motive and the opportunity to kill him, or arrange his death from here. The means is yet to be established. Lawrence too." He frowned. "As for Emilia…someone wanted to stop her passing on her information to Josh. Who? Law again has motive and probably opportunity and means. And I suppose Lawrence also has the opportunity, unless he has an alibi for Saturday night, and possibly the means…but the motive? _No_." He shook his head firmly. "Clive Lawrence would never kill his own daughter. He loved her too much."

"I was about to say the same," Camille commented. "You could see it in their faces – they were utterly devastated when we visited them yesterday."

Humphrey glanced over at her and caught Josh's expression as he did so. He was standing quite close by, staring at the group picture of his younger self with his mother, father and brother with the oddest expression on his face – a strong emotion that Humphrey couldn't decipher. Humphrey considered him for a moment before saying, rather tentatively. "Josh? You OK?"

Josh didn't respond for a moment. When he did, he seemed to visibly shake himself out of his trance. "Yeah, sure. Sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry. It must be difficult to see your mother again," Humphrey suggested. Even as he did so, it came to him that the expression he had interrupted on Josh's face hadn’t been so much one of grief as of confusion - as if something about the family photo didn't quite make sense to him.

"It's OK – I’m used to it by now. I have my own copy of that photo." Josh stepped closer and tapped on the image of Ernest Nieto. "Is that the man I need to investigate?"

"Yes, and he's our third suspect. He had the means and the opportunity to kill Emilia at least, but what's his motive? Greed, I suppose, if he had been trying to squeeze money out of Patterson. He wouldn't want Emilia spilling the beans to a journalist."

"Seems like a flimsy reason for killing someone in cold blood," Fidel commented, frowning at Nieto's photograph.

"But he _is_ a killer," put in Camille. "He has no respect for human life. I sensed that about him when he kidnapped us."

"Unless he didn't _mean_ to kill her."

They all turned to look at Dwayne, who'd made this observation. He shrugged. "Well, it's a risky way to kill someone, isn't it? Speedball isn't an automatic death sentence. He couldn't know that she _would_ die from the heroin once the cocaine had worn off – plenty of people get lucky and don't. _I_ think he – or she – did it to make Emilia incapable of speaking to anyone. The death was…well, an unfortunate accident. Though if it _is_ Nieto, he probably didn't care all that much."

"And the other drug - Eddie's joint?" Camille asked.

"Yeah, well I was thinking about that." Dwayne folded his arms; a familiar characteristic when he was about to declaim something. "Those two that Eddie saw in the lounge – the man that resuscitated her and the woman who called for help. I mentioned them before. I still think it's odd that they were so alert and ready to help Eddie after being at an all-night party of drink and drugs. This is what _I_ think. _Either_ one of them was the murderer _or_ , more likely, they were planted there by the murderer to make sure Emilia didn't manage get the information out when she came round from the speedball. Then, when Eddie found her and realised she was dead, the man jumped up to take over the resuscitation. In the process, he could have left traces of the joint that he'd already stolen from Eddie's pocket earlier, on Emilia's mouth and fingers. Eddie would have been too dazed to have noticed what he was doing. Meanwhile, his accomplice was drawing attention away from _him_ and onto _her_ by calling for an ambulance – and probably doing so quite loudly."

Humphrey stared at him. "You might just have something there. The question is, who were they? We could look through the guest list again, but I don't think we had a witness statement from anyone who claimed to have tried resuscitating her, did we? It's more likely they just drifted away in all the commotion – I wonder why? Dwayne, try ringing the paramedics – see if they remember anything. And also the emergency number operator – did that woman identify herself? Fidel, show Josh that box of papers we retrieved from Nieto's house – both of you see if you can find anything useful. Camille, contact the Commissioner and request an emergency search warrant for the Lawrences' house."

As the team got to work, he sat down at his desk, feeling a little dizzy and out of breath. He felt as if he were staggering through warm water, but even more so than usual in this humid part of the world. There was no doubt that _something_ was badly wrong with him, possibly the antibiotics weren't strong enough, and he would be a fool if he didn't consult a doctor today. But equally, he feared leaving the case unsolved for too long – the ancient instincts that every good cop had were telling him that someone else was in grave danger and that the killer might strike again very soon.

His phone vibrated and he opened up the new text, smiling at the message.

_It's been a while, Mr. G. I'm a very busy pathologist but for you I can find the time. Leave it with me. SH._

The smile dropped from his face as he looked up at the board again. _What was he missing_? He was absolutely convinced that Jonathan Masters' death hadn't been natural, but who would have had the opportunity? His eyes roamed from face to face, considering…before stopping on one face in particular. His eyes flickered quickly from that to another face…and then back again…

"Sir?" It was Camille, breaking into his reverie. "Patterson is leaving the permit with his PA, so we can pick it up on the way to the Lawrences."

"OK." He got up, putting on his jacket. "Fidel, ring the Commissioner's office again and tell them that I want additional permission to look at Mr Lawrence's bank accounts, and then contact his banks. I want financial statements for all his accounts, business and personal, for the last – um, let's say three years. Dwayne, any luck with the paramedics?"

"Nah, boss. They remember some man bending over her and stepping out of the way when they arrived, but they didn't get his name or anything out of him, and he didn't tell them anything."

"OK, thanks Dwayne. Leave that for now – what I want you do is get over to Hotel Sainte-Marie International and see if you can spot Jessica Law. Don't approach her yet, just stand by and keep an eye on things. Camille, you're with me."

The signed permit was presented to them by the immaculately turned-out PA. They saw no sign of the Commissioner. On the way to the Lawrences, Humphrey broke the silence in the car.

"I know you're worried about me. Truthfully, I'm a bit concerned too – this feels like more than just a minor infection. After this visit, I'd like you to drop me at the hospital."

She gave him a relieved smile. "I didn't like to say anything, but I'm glad. I've been so worried."

He felt a warm feeling at her words. OK, yes, they might just be the words of a caring colleague, but he was fairly sure by now that Camille's feelings ran deeper than that. Whether the two of them were _entirely_ on the same page he couldn't tell, but he felt more hopeful than he had just a couple of days ago. Even if Camille was still in love with Richard, she would move on eventually, and she didn't seem _entirely_ repulsed by him.

He opened his mouth to reply, but his phone went at that moment. It was Fidel.

"Sir, we've found something useful in that pile of papers. Looks like Nieto works for the Lawrences occasionally as a gardener. We've found three invoices and they look genuine – he's itemised the work done. It's all basic maintenance stuff – pruning trees, weeding, mowing the lawns and so on."

"OK, thanks for that. And the banks?"

"Yes, we've got the emergency permit and I'm just about to contact them to request the statements. I will have to go there to see them; they won't allow them to be taken away. That's just the Sainte-Marie banks – the international ones are trickier."

"That's OK, let's start with the personal bank accounts here. I have a feeling we're going to find what we're looking for. Also, I want some background on Ernest Nieto's movements over the last few years – now we have the right name, let's see what we can find out about his travel history….thanks."

Camille gave him a curious look. "Are you nearly there? I just have a feeling that you're about to get your break-through moment – you know, that moment where you go all crazy and weird and talk to yourself, and then you call everyone together in one room."

He smiled at the description. "Is that how you see it? I suppose I must look a bit odd… Anyway, I _just might_ \- I think it's nearly there, but there's something I need to be sure of first."

"Something _here_?" she asked as they pulled up at the Lawrences' house.

"Hmm, maybe."

Emma Lawrence was home, not looking overly pleased to see them, but reasonably polite. "Clive isn't here. He's gone into town to see the funeral directors with Selwyn. He told me you would be coming and I'm to let you have access to everything. I don't see what good it can do, but you're welcome to try."

Humphrey gave her an understanding smile. "I'm sorry to have to bother you. We often have to ask difficult things of people, but it's often just to eliminate suspects. We'll be as quick and unobtrusive as we can. By the way, where is Eddie today?"

She gave him a sharp look as she led them in. "Out with friends somewhere, I'm not quite sure where. Do you need to see him?"

"Not right now. We'd like to take a look at Emilia's bedroom and also the office. We might need to look at the computer – is it password-protected?"

She looked surprised. "Yes, but I can give you the password if you need it."

After a moment's hesitation, she scribbled it down on a scrap of paper before taking them up the stairs and into Emilia's bedroom. She nodded a little awkwardly and left them to it.

It was a typical teenager's bedroom, perhaps a bit neater than most, but with the usual obsessions on prominent display. In Emilia's case, this appeared to be sport of various kinds; she had a signed photograph of Andy Murray on her desk, a poster of the England women's football team hung on the back of the door, and various paraphernalia from the 2012 Olympics displayed on a large board on the wall – tickets, programmes, badges, a t-shirt and so on. He wondered whether she had a similar sized collection in her bedroom in Britain. The room had a very homely feel to it, but then he supposed she spent a fair amount of her time here, including all of the holidays. There were various photographs taken of her with friends here on the island, including one of her dressed in tennis whites and holding a trophy.

Humphrey could tell fairly quickly that they were unlikely to find anything of interest here. He looked at Camille, who had turned on Emilia's laptop and was scrolling through her files, but she shook her head – there was nothing relevant on there.

"OK, let's try the study."

Emma wasn't anywhere in sight when they left the bedroom and went back down the stairs, so they tried a couple of doors and found the study on the third go. It was a pleasant room. The house was surrounded by gardens, but the sun-dappled study was situated towards one end of the long white building, overlooking a neat lawn that led down towards the clifftop. They could see the shimmering gleam of the blue sea in the distance.

Clive Lawrence seemed to be excessively neat; the few paper-based files he kept were carefully numbered and filed away in a cupboard. Humphrey felt it was unlikely he'd find anything here after a period of so many years, but he flicked through a few of them, trying to get an idea of what the man kept here. It was harder than usual to focus; he could feel the beginning of what promised to be a severe headache and his brain felt sluggish.

Camille, meanwhile, logged into the computer and started browsing. There was a safe and he wondered whether he should have asked for the combination, but Mrs. Lawrence might have baulked at that.

Suddenly, there was a loud blaring sound from the open window that made Humphrey jump.

"It's the ferry from Guadeloupe," Camille replied without looking up. "It always arrives at 10.25 and sounds the horn just before entering the harbour. You probably wouldn't hear it from your house, on the other side of the bay, or even from the station."

"No, but… I _have_ heard that sound before." He walked over to the open window and looked out at the carefully tended flower beds right below, wincing at the bright sunshine. His head was thumping and he felt wretched, almost flu-like. "I just can't quite picture when it was…"

She interrupted him. "Now _this_ is interesting!"

"What is it?" He walked across the study to lean over her shoulder and she pointed at the screen. She'd opened up some kind of accounts spreadsheet.

"It looks like a record of personal expenses. Mostly household things, bills and so on, but they also include money spent on flights. Look – you can see a large payment going out to Virgin Airlines a couple of weeks' ago, which is when they last flew here from Britain. And now – look." She scrolled back up the spreadsheet. "Here's the beginning of this year. There's a payment to Virgin for a flight on 2nd January, but then there's _another_ one – much bigger – on the 14th January."

"So? Perhaps one of them flew back earlier?"

"Yes, but…" She pointed at a couple of adjoining lines. "Look – a payment to a hotel in London for the 2nd to 5th January. Why would any of them be staying in a hotel when they've got a house in London? And then another payment on the same date, 2nd January, just described as 'cash for expenses'."

"Twenty thousand," he murmured, looking at the line. "That's a _lot_ of cash."

"Where does Clive Lawrence get that kind of money from?" she wondered. "I mean, I know he was high up in the diplomatic service, but even so. He’s had four children to get through private school over the years, he has two houses and probably other properties… The job doesn't pay _that_ well, does it?"

"An inheritance, perhaps? Although -," he added, frowning, "- Josh said that when his grandmother died, she left all her money, which he described as 'not an awful lot', to her four grandchildren. What was it he said – that his dad had _other_ money?"

"Perhaps it's _her_ money – Emma's," Camille suggested. "We don't know much about her family, do we?"

"No, we don't, that's true," he said, slowly. He straightened up, perhaps a little too quickly, as the room swam alarmingly and black spots appeared in front of his eyes. He felt a cold prickle of sweat trickle down his spine and a by-now familiar stab of nausea.

He closed his eyes, trying to clear his vision. Two faces seem to dance in front of his eyes, and suddenly, he _knew_ what it was that had been nagging at him for so long.

"Sir?" Camille's voice seemed to come from far away. " _Humphrey_ , are you OK?"

He opened his eyes and turned to face her…before his vision went black again and he felt himself falling forward onto the carpet in a graceless heap.

" _Humphrey_!"

He opened his eyes again; his cheek was squashed against the rough wool of the carpet, but he could see her anxious face from out of the corner of his eye, upside-down as she bent over him. The angle looked funny and he would have laughed if he had the time or energy.

"Jessica Law," he told her, solemnly. And then promptly fainted.

 


	22. Chapter 22

Humphrey woke up very slowly.

He had a sense of feeling wonderfully cool for the first time in recent memory. Even at night, the temperature in the beach house could be high – he had a mobile air conditioning unit that didn't work at all and a fan that only gently stirred the humid air – so to feel goose-bumps on his arms was really quite…extraordinary.

Although, as he remembered after a minute, it wasn't _actually_ the first time in recent memory – there had been that boathouse, with the freezing cold water around his knees and an icy sense of fear in his gut. This time, he felt cool but in a comfortable way.

After a further minute, he realised he was lying on a bed. Opening his eyes, he saw the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room and frowned. His last clear memory was of coming here, to this very same room in fact, after he and Camille had been rescued by Fidel and Dwayne, but he thought he'd discharged himself…hadn't he? He seemed to have memories of limping around on a painful knee in various locations around the island, of a thumping headache and of having arguments with Camille…

 _Camille_! He could visualise her now – an upside-down worried-looking face peering down at him. He'd fainted – hadn't he? On the study floor at the Lawrences…

He winced and closed his eyes again, wearily. Well, he'd wanted to come back to the hospital, but he hadn't planned on doing it _quite_ this way. _Christ_ , how bloody embarrassing could he be? Flaking out in front of his Sergeant; the woman he… _No_. _Let's not go there_ , he told himself sternly.

He tried to move his arms and legs, experimentally. His right leg felt stiff and odd – not painful, exactly, but as if something was pulling on it. He flexed his hands and realised that there was a drip in the back of one of them.

"You know, you are the single most aggravating man I have ever met. And that _includes_ Richard."

His eyes flew open again.

Camille was sitting on a hospital chair near his head. As he turned his head to take her in properly, he saw that she was leaning back quite casually, her legs crossed and her arms folded, and looking as cool as a cucumber. The one sign that she was perhaps not quite as calm as she seemed was a tense jaw…and that was a warning sign for Camille, if ever there was one.

"Um…what happened to me?" he asked, weakly.

She picked up his medical clipboard, flicking slowly through the pages of information. " _Weeeell_ , let's see, shall we? Prolonged raised temperature, badly infected wound, increased heart rate, low blood pressure causing dizziness and fainting, confusion, headache…" She dropped the clipboard and leaned forward. "You have _sepsis_ , Humphrey! You could have gone into shock at any moment."

"But, but that's _ridiculous_! I -." He struggled into a semi-seated position. Looking down, he could see that the wound in his leg had been opened again and was currently being drained, which was probably why it had felt so heavy and awkward. He also noted, with no small degree of humiliation, that he was wearing only an extremely brief hospital gown, the type that was open at the back. Self-consciously, he tried to pull the hem down a little.

"Well, I didn't know it was _that_ bad," he said, sheepishly. "How could I?"

"If you'd seen a doctor earlier instead of putting it off, this might not have happened! I mean, _seriously_ , Humphrey!" She made an angry, peculiarly French, gesture. "You are in the _tropics_. There are any number of nasty bugs you could pick up. And the doctor said you must have been feeling _terrible_ before you collapsed."

"I didn't feel great…" He paused and lay down again, shutting his eyes from exhaustion. "I'm sorry to put you to all this trouble."

"So you _should_ be." Her voice was still a little angry, but at the same time he felt her warm hand squeezing his arm. He enjoyed the all-too-brief moment of comfort before she stood up, abruptly. "And now you are a little better, I am off to arrest Jessica Law."

"Uh – wait! Why?" He opened his eyes and struggled up into a sitting position again. "How long was I out?"

She glanced at her watch. "Just over six hours. The doctor said not to worry, it is just your body's way of recovering."

"And you've – um, you've been _here_ , all this time?"

She paused, seeming a bit confused. "Well, I…I wasn't going to leave you _alone_! Who _knows_ what you would have got up to!"

"What – unconscious and on a hospital bed? What did you _think_ I'd get up to?"

She tried to look severe, but he could tell she was struggling not to smile. "I wouldn't put it past you, Humphrey Goodman. Oh, and to answer your other question, you named Jessica Law as the killer just before you fainted."

"I _did_? Um, yes, I remember saying her name…" He frowned, unable to recall his reasoning.

"Yes, so I'm assuming you want her brought in now?" she enquired, raising an eyebrow. "Dwayne is keeping an eye on her; he's sort-of undercover at the hotel at the moment. We're just waiting for your decision, but I will go over to provide back-up in case she resists."

She turned towards the door.

"Wait!" He tried to move his legs off the bed before realising what a monumentally bad idea that was. "Camille, you have to wait! I need to come too – it's the denouement! I have to be there to explain everything like I always do -."

"What are you _doing_!" she hissed, grabbing him by the arm to stop him from moving any further. "You have to stay here! That's an antibiotic drip in your arm -."

"- _yes_ , so you have to get it out, don't you _see_ -."

"- and there's a _drain_ in your wound! You can't just walk out, it's _madness_ to consider it. For _heaven's sake_ , Humphrey." This last was in response to his clumsy attempt to pull the needle out of his hand. She pulled his other hand away and pushed him back into a reclining position, looking alarmed but giggling at the same time. He supposed he must make a fairly comical picture in the ridiculously short hospital gown.

"Nieto -."

"Will have to _wait_ ," she replied, firmly. "We've enough evidence to keep him in the cells anyway, just for kidnap and attempted murder. The drugs charge can come later. And as for Law, we can bring her in and take her statement. I'll bring it here later, so you can take a look. We have enough evidence to hold her on a fraud charge."

"But -."

" _No_. Just stay here. _That's_ an order."

"You can't order me around," he responded, weakly, but she nodded over her shoulder.

"True, but _he_ can."

"Everything alright in here?" The doctor strode into the room, appearing calmly unaware of Humphrey's feeble struggles to discharge himself. "I see you're back with us, Inspector Goodman. Feeling better?"

"Er, yes, thank you. However, I do need to leave as soon as I can, Doctor. I'm in the middle of a case, you see."

"So I gather." The doctor exchanged an amused glance with Camille, who had stepped back. "Well, you have a nasty infection in that leg. Probably caused by something in the dirt in that boathouse. Your wound was exposed for a prolonged period of time. Your vital signs -" He paused, looking through Humphrey's records before smiling at him, "- are stable. You're fighting off the infection nicely, but I think we'll keep you in for a little longer to be sure. A couple of days, at least."

" _Days_?" Humphrey was aghast.

The doctor's eyes slid over to Camille again for a moment.

"I'm sure your team is diligent enough to carry on with you out of the 'field', so to speak." He nodded at Humphrey in a friendly manner and turned to leave. "Oh, and by the way," he called out over his shoulder, "I wouldn't try to pull out that drain without medical assistance if I were you. The consequences could be unpleasant."

There was a brief silence after his departure. Humphrey sighed at the smug look on his Sergeant's face. " _Alright_ , I'll stay put, but be careful."

She grinned. "Aren't I always? Oh look, there's someone else to keep an eye on you."

He sighed again as Josh came into the room. "And you arranged it, didn't you?"

"Not sure what you mean," she called out airily as she passed Josh on her way out.

Josh gave Humphrey a sheepish look. "Sorry about that. I feel a bit like a baby-sitter, I must admit. Still, it's good to see you looking better."

"Really?" Humphrey cast a grumpy look at the hospital gown.

Josh sniggered, sitting on the visitor's chair. "Do you think they picked that one out deliberately? I'm sure there must be longer ones."

"Yes, probably." Humphrey sighed. "I'm not sure it matters – I've made enough of a fool of myself already."

Josh gave him an amused but sympathetic look. "Don't sweat it, mate. She'll come around."

"I'm _that_ obvious, am I?"

Josh snorted. "I'm not _that_ amazing an investigative reporter. It's fairly obvious from the way you look at her when she isn't looking."

Humphrey narrowed his eyes at the journalist. "You're fairly observant, aren't you?"

"I like to think I am," Josh replied, shrugging.

"So…”  Humphrey put his head back and stared at the ceiling, trying to find a way of changing the conversation.  “So, what was it about the family photograph earlier? I am remembering right, aren't I? When you were looking at it, you looked confused. At first, I thought it was seeing a photo that you hadn't seen for a long time, but then you said you had a copy anyway."

Josh frowned. "That's right. It was just… I don't know. Just, when I was looking at Mum, I was struck by how strongly Emilia resembled her. I think I might have noticed before and that was partly why I warmed to her…but seeing their photos side by side reinforced it."

"But Emilia resembles her _own_ mother - Emma," Humphrey pointed out.

"Well, yes…" Josh shrugged. "I guess they're just very alike, both of my Dad's wives. It must a particular look he goes for."

"Hmm…" Humphrey stared at the ceiling, blankly. Who else had made that observation – was it Dwayne? His mind whirring, he sought to remember exactly _what_ it was that he'd realised so suddenly in the study at the Lawrences just before his collapse…

Josh shifted a little. "Look, Humphrey, I was wondering if I could pop back to the hotel at some point today? I really need to take a closer look at the damage done to my brother's stuff. You don't mind if I go, do you? I don't know why Camille wanted me to sit with you - she just called me on her phone earlier and asked me to take over guard duty so she could get on with the case."

Humphrey stared at him. " _What_ was that – what did you just say?"

The journalist looked confused. "Um, I said that she rang me -."

" _Rang you – that's it_!" He sat up, wincing at the stretch of the drain. "Where's my phone? And where's yours?"

Obligingly, Josh searched the pockets of Humphrey's jacket, which was hanging on the back of the door and brought his phone back to the bed. Humphrey powered it on and looked anxiously for a new text.

There it was:

_Heart attack, likely induced by heroin overdose. Come and visit us soon, if you can drag yourself away from the tropical paradise. Ben and dogs send love. SH._

He closed the message, looking up at Josh expectantly. "And your phone? I need to listen to Emilia's message again."

Josh located it for him, and he listened intently. _There_ it was, in the background to Emilia and Josh's conversation. That noise he had thought might be a car alarm but was actually the blare of the ferry's horn.

"She was in the _study_ with the window open when she rang you," he breathed. "So _that_ was it…which means that…"

He dropped Josh's phone on the bed, picked up his own and hit the speed dial. Camille's phone went straight to answerphone. She must be driving. He swore under his breath and looked up at Josh urgently.

"Which means that Jessica Law is in serious danger! _That's_ what I realised just before I fainted."

He redialled the station number, looking up at Josh as he did so. "Josh, you need to get after Camille immediately! _Find Jessica Law_ …before the killer does."

 


	23. Chapter 23

Just over two hours later, Humphrey was sitting up in his hospital room in rather better order. A good-humoured nurse had helped him navigate his clothes around the various tubes protruding from his body so that he was at least dressed in a loose shirt and shorts – a little unprofessional but still much more dignified than the hospital gown. She'd found him a chair with a leg rest, so he was able get out of bed without disturbing his drip or the leg drain.

While that was going on, he'd been on the phone giving certain instructions to Fidel. He'd also called in another favour from Serena Hope. It'd been a tough call for her to get the additional evidence he'd wanted but somehow, against all the odds and even though it was late evening in Britain by now, she'd come through for him.

A number of chairs had been positioned in from of him in a semi-circle and sitting on them from left to right were seven people. He had to repress a twitch of nerves under their hard gazes as he took them each in.

Clive Lawrence was sitting on the far left. He looked old and weary, the dark circles under his eyes telling of sleepless nights, but his mouth was compressed in that peculiar manner that Humphrey associated with Englishmen of a certain generation. The look that said "I will hold on to my dignity whatever you throw at me". His heart ached for the quiet grief he could see in the man's eyes.

Eddie sat next to his father and was the only one not staring at Humphrey. He was gazing at his tanned knees and picking at a fraying thread on his denim cut-offs. From what Humphrey could make out of his expression it seemed sullen and defensive. There was no sign of sorrow over his sister's death, but Humphrey fancied it was there nonetheless. He found it hard to believe that this 'child' was a man of twenty; there was a lot of maturing that needed to happen before Eddie Lawrence amounted to anything other than an over-indulged rich boy.

His mother sat on his other side, her pale, strained face devoid of make-up, although she was dry-eyed and surprisingly composed. Humphrey's eyes lingered on hers for a moment – what was going on behind that blank mask? Her eyes stared back in his direction, almost as if she didn't see him. She looked to him like a woman who was only just hanging onto the last shreds of her sanity.

Selwyn Patterson sat next to her, his face set to neutral, although his eyes were grimly fixed to Humphrey's face as if daring him to step out of line.

Humphrey passed over his face a little nervously and onto the friendlier countenance of Josh Lawrence, who was looking a little battered with some minor grazes on his face, arms and hands. The journalist gave him a smile and rolled his eyes, as if he recognised the artificiality of the current set-up. Humphrey had to repress his own smile; it _was_ a little clichéd. It was funny the way he'd come to accept the 'denouement' as a perfectly normal part of the case simply because Richard had always done it this way.

Next to him sat a wary-looking Jessica Law, with a nasty bruise on her forehead and her bandaged right arm in a sling. Humphrey looked at her with interest; it was only the second time he had seen her in person. She was very far from the smooth, composed businesswoman he had glimpsed at the hotel yesterday evening, looking ruffled and annoyed.  Her age was beginning to show too, despite the immaculate make-up.

And next to her, a little apart from the rest, sat Ernest Nieto, handcuffed and with two uniformed officers standing behind his chair. He looked at Humphrey with little expression in his face; no sense of recognition or even a glimmer of emotion. Humphrey couldn't tell whether this was an attempt at deception or just Nieto's stock response during his many encounters with the law.

"Thank you all for coming here – I really appreciate it." He looked at Jessica Law. "Are you feeling alright now, Jessica - I hope you don't mind me calling you that?"

She grimaced and cast an unfriendly look at Patterson and Clive Lawrence. "I'd feel a _hell_ of a lot better if I knew just who it was in that car who tried to run me over."

"Ah, well that's _precisely_ why you're all here. We're about to find out, although first I'm sure you're _extremely_ grateful to Josh here for heroically leaping in the path of the car to push you out of the way just in time."

Apparently, Josh had turned up at the hotel shortly after Camille, and had been standing outside the reception area telling Camille and Dwayne about Humphrey's warning when Jessica Law had stepped out of the door. Before any of them could react, a car had whizzed up the road in front of the hotel and if it hadn't been for Josh's quick reactions, Law would have been knocked over and quite possibly badly injured or even killed. The car had sped off towards the main exit, and Camille and Dwayne had been too busy checking on Josh and Law to warn security to stop it.

They'd both got off fairly lightly, considering they'd collided with some concrete plant pots outside the reception door. However, judging by the cold nod of thanks that Jessica Law directed at Josh and the equally cold way he acknowledged it, there was no love lost between the two. Naturally, Josh still blamed Law for his mother's death.

Humphrey glanced over at Camille, who was standing near the door talking to Fidel on her phone. She looked at him and gave a brief nod of confirmation.

"Good!" He clapped his hands together. "Normally I'd be pacing up and down at this moment, but for obvious reasons, I can't right now, so I'd like you all to imagine that I am." He swallowed at the confused expressions on their faces and added quickly. "Or _not_. It's entirely up to you."

He tried to avoid Camille's expression, knowing she'd be rolling her eyes, and carried on: "So…this was an intriguing case right from the start. A teenaged girl goes to a party at which drugs are rife and ends up dead from an overdose."

He spread his hands wide. "Sounds like an open-and-shut case, albeit a tragic one, doesn't it? Except for _one thing_ : Emilia was a clean-living, sporty young woman who was known to hate recreational drugs – so much so that she frequently fell out with her brother over them."

He glanced at Eddie, who didn't quite meet his eyes. "Emilia was the reason that you were thrown out of University, wasn't she, Eddie? Your _own sister_ reported you to the police for possession with intent to supply, and the University authorities found out and threw you off the course… That must have made you feel pretty resentful, didn't it?"

He looked up at Humphrey. "Not enough to kill her," he muttered, sullenly.

Humphrey looked at him for a long minute before his eyes softened and he shook his head. "No. I agree – you _didn't_ kill her. Because for all your disagreements, you actually loved her very much, didn't you? I could see that in the photo of the two of you. She looked out for you, even though she was younger. And _that_ was why she reported you to the police – out of desperation as much as anything. I think she probably hoped that it might shock you enough to want to get out of the habit. You might want to think about that."

The young man looked away, his face shamed and angry.

Humphrey looked around the rest of the company. "But I must admit that it confused me for a while. We knew that Emilia had been invited to that party _by her brother_ because that's what she said to her friends, and we naturally assumed that she was referring to Eddie. So, it followed that if she was invited _deliberately_ , perhaps with the purpose of killing her but making it look like an accidental overdose, then that didn't look too good for the brother who invited her. But _then_ , of course, we found out that she'd been referring to her _other_ brother." He nodded at Josh. "Who was trying to find out who killed his mother here on the island, twenty-five years' ago."

Out of the periphery of his vision, he was aware of Jessica Law making a sudden movement but he ignored her.

"So, suddenly this was an _extremely_ interesting case. Donata Lawrence had been investigating a case of financial fraud and may have killed to stop her delivering information to Patterson. And now it seemed that _Emilia_ had found out something that might lead Josh to his mother's killer…and someone killed _her_ before she had a chance to pass that information on."

" _What_?" Clive Lawrence leaned towards him, an expression of shock in his eyes. "Are you saying that it _wasn't_ an accident? Someone killed her and made it look like an overdose?"

Humphrey looked at him sympathetically. "Yes, I'm afraid so. I'm so sorry to have to tell you that."

Clive paused, seeming to take this in, and Humphrey watched the myriad of emotions passing over his face – disbelief, anger and back to grief. "In a way it's -," he looked down at his hands, with a sad little smile. "- it's rather a relief to know that she hadn't deliberately… well. You know. I couldn't believe it could be an overdose. Not my Emmie. She was too strong for that."

His son shifted slightly beside him, his eyes still downcast.

Humphrey smiled at the bereaved father. "Yes, she _was_ strong, Clive. Strong, intelligent and very caring. You can be very proud of her."

"I just hope…" Clive swallowed and looked up at Humphrey. "What…what did she find out? Was it to do with me?"

"I'm afraid so," Humphrey said, gently. "We think that Emilia found the e-mails that Jonathan Masters had sent you. Before he died, he was trying to blackmail you, wasn't he?"

Clive nodded slowly. "I – I didn't reply to any of the messages. I had just started to consult my London solicitor about the matter, but then they suddenly stopped, and I thought that was an end to it. I heard that he had died, so that would have been why. But I thought I'd deleted all the messages."

Humphrey glanced at Camille, who'd been busy examining Clive's e-mail account before coming to the hospital. She explained: "You'd deleted them, but they were still in your trash can, so I was able to retrieve them, and I imagine Emilia did too."

"You see," Humphrey added, "Jonathan was the only one who knew the _truth_ about your involvement in his pyramid scheme. You invested heavily in it."

"We already _know_ that," Patterson put in, quickly. "But it was a _mistake_!"

Humphrey glanced at Patterson and then at Law. "The thing is, it _wasn't_. What you and Ms. Law _didn't_ know was that Clive knew _perfectly well_ what the scheme was. You believed he had been duped, and Ms. Law used that knowledge to threaten him, but that wasn't true, was it, Clive?"

Clive paused and gave an incredulous Patterson an embarrassed look before nodding his head. "No, it wasn't. I – I _did_ know all along. He'd been bothering me for years about money for one thing or another, and I'd hoped…I know it sounds ridiculous, but I _had_ hoped that if he made a lot of money out of the scheme, he'd get out of Sainte-Marie and leave me alone." He shook his head, giving the Commissioner another look. "I'm sorry, Selwyn, I wish I'd told you… We both know that Jonathan was permanently short of money and couldn't afford to go anywhere else to make a fresh start. My hope was that once he'd made his fortune out of his victims, he'd have _had_ to leave the island, even if he got away with it this time. I just wanted to be left in peace!"

Humphrey paused and allowed those present to absorb Clive's words fully before going on. "I thought so, because when Patterson told us that you were usually extremely cautious in money matters, it seemed odd to me that you were persuaded by a man that you both _knew_ to be a fraudster. You couldn't have been that naïve. But anyway, you gave him the money and took care to make sure that the documents were carefully neutral. That way, if you were ever found out, you could say that you had no idea what the money was for and that you were just helping out an old friend." He grimaced. "Wouldn't have done your reputation any good, but there wouldn't have been actual _proof_."

Patterson shook his head slowly, his face still registering his disbelief. Humphrey felt momentarily sorry for the Commissioner, who so often seemed utterly sure of himself.

His eyes went to Jessica Law, who was regarding him steadily. "The irony is that Jessica used that evidence to get Patterson off her back…and yet it probably wouldn't have stuck in a court of law even if she _had_ acted on her threat. And the other irony was that you ended up paying dearly for your own fraudulent behaviour, didn't you, Jessica? How many years were you paying for Jonathan Masters' upkeep just to keep his mouth shut? You needn't pretend surprise – we know all about it."

"Twenty-three years," she muttered, glaring at the floor.

He winced. "That's a _long_ time – and a _lot_ of money. Must have pretty much added up to the amount you stole off him in the first place? You must have wanted to bump him off _years_ ago," he added conversationally.

Her eyes flew up to his, startled.

"Oh yes, he was murdered alright. My colleague in London is certain that he was administered a drug overdose sufficient to finish him off. So there we are – three very different victims."

He looked around at his audience. They were all rapt attention now; even Eddie had stopped staring at the floor. " _Who killed them_ – specifically, who killed Emilia? Could it be the upstanding civil servant with a reputation to maintain? The self-centred drug user who resented his sister almost as much as he loved her? The fraudulent hotelier who was being blackmailed? The drug trafficker who had already shown he had no concern for human life? Or even -," his eyes went to Josh. "- the older half-brother? I did consider that too. What if Emilia _had_ passed on her information before she died? What if it was something so damning that Josh had to silence her?"

Josh looked back at him without hostility, his eyes open and enquiring, and Humphrey had to repress a smile before shaking his head.

" _No_ , I knew from the start that _that_ couldn't be true. If it was, you'd have got off the island as quickly as possible. You wouldn't hang around and you'd hardly be so obvious in inviting us to approach you yesterday evening…unless you are _seriously_ egotistical, and I don't believe you are. So it's not you."

" _Thank_ you," Josh replied, drily.

Humphrey paused, looking at his audience again and then smiled a little sheepishly. "You know, my predecessor in this job always focused on three elements: the means, the motive and the opportunity." His eyes met Camille's briefly and he saw her smile reminiscently. "There were some who laughed at him, some who thought he was ridiculously pedantic, but it wasn't such a bad approach to take. He got results. I read through a lot of his case-notes in London and was impressed by his thorough methods. And I usually try to focus on those elements myself." He counted them off his fingers. "The means. The motive. The opportunity."

He paused again and frowned. "The trouble was, it was very difficult to find _any one person_ who had all _three_ of those – the means, the method and the opportunity – to kill our three victims. In particular, the motive was elusive. Who would want to kill _Emilia_ after all? A kind, lovely young woman with lots of friends and no obvious enemies. Not anyone who _knew_ her – surely? The _motive_ was a little easier to understand when it came to Masters, but what about Donata? In fact, the motive is often the most elusive of the elements, and we run the risk of inventing motives that might not exist. In that situation, I often find myself back at _opportunity._ After all, a person might very well have the motive to kill someone, but that's irrelevant if they don't have the opportunity – and the means."

He looked at Nieto who was looking more attentive. "Now, _here's_ someone who almost certainly had the opportunity and the means in each case. We know he was following Donata before her death, probably on the orders of his then boss – Jessica Law – and that he may have had the means to kill her. He could have driven her off that road. We also know that there's at least a possibility that he was at that party on Saturday, and he certainly had the means to kill Emilia. The motive? Not clear in either case – unless he was being paid by someone, and that's almost certainly his motivation for most of the crimes he commits. But in the end, it comes down to Jonathan Masters, the one who was _not_ killed on the island. Who would have had the _means_ and the _opportunity_?"

The room was so silent it would have been possible to hear a pin drop.

Humphrey nodded at Camille, who consulted her notebook and gave a little cough before speaking. "We know that Masters died on 4th January, and we know he was killed by an overdose of heroin, probably caused by being injected by Speedball… _exactly_ the same way that Emilia was killed. And we know that Clive, Emma and Eddie Lawrence and Jessica Law were all on Sainte-Marie on that date. However, we also know that the Lawrences purchased one air ticket for travel to London on the 2nd and booked a London hotel room for the 2nd-5th January."

Humphrey nodded in agreement and looked at Clive, Emma and Eddie. " _Did_ one of you travel back to London earlier than the rest? And, if so, why?"

"We _didn't_!" Emma broke in suddenly before Clive could respond. "And we can _prove_ it. It was Emilia's 18th birthday on the 5th and we had a party here on the island. We actually flew back sometime the following week, all of us at the same time. I would have to check, but I think it was around the 13th or 14th."

Humphrey nodded. "That's right – and we _did_ check. None of you went through passport control on the 5th, but _someone_ did – _someone_ travelled on that Virgin Airlines flight and stayed in that hotel room in London. Someone travelled to Jonathan Master's house and killed him."

He paused and looked at Ernest Nieto again. "And that person was Ernest Nieto."

The drug trafficker was the only person who didn't visibly react to this revelation. He gave just the twitch of a smile and kept his eyes on Humphrey as the others in the semi-circle turned towards him curiously.

"Of course I don't have cast-iron proof yet, but we'll get it. You almost certainly travelled on a fake passport, but we can tie a name used on the flight with the name used to check into that hotel room. And we can investigate CCTV images at Heathrow, and I'm pretty sure that if we carry on looking through your documents we'll find that false passport. And _why_? What motive would you have to kill Masters? No personal motive, so you were paid to do it."

"Not by _me_ ," Jessica Law broke in, glaring at Nieto.

"No, indeed not," Humphrey agreed equably. "Twenty-three years is a _heck_ of a long time to keep paying someone off. If you'd wanted to arrange his death, you'd have done it a very long time ago."

"But then who _did_ pay him?" asked the Commissioner, puzzled.

Humphrey gave him a small smile. "Oh, that's easy enough. It was Emma Lawrence."

 


	24. Chapter 24

This time the reaction to the revelation was more gratifyingly explosive. Patterson exclaimed under his breath, Jessica Law took a sharp intake of breath and Clive and Eddie both turned to stare at Emma.

The only two people who did not respond very obviously were Ernest Nieto, who was as blank-faced as before, and Emma Lawrence herself.

She was looking at Humphrey, her face pale and set. "I have absolutely _no_ idea what you're talking about," she said, barely above a whisper, her voice low and harsh.

"It's just _impossible_ ," Clive interrupted, angrily. "Utterly preposterous! Emma had absolutely nothing to do with it; I made sure of that. Why, she didn't even _know_ about Jonathan Masters…"

Humphrey kept his eyes on Emma. "Well, that's not entirely true, is it? First of all, you saw the e-mails that your husband received from Masters. You have no decent security on that computer, Clive, just a password that she knows, so she had access to your e-mail account all the time. And, in any case, Emma _knew_ of Masters long before she met you, even if she never met him. She had a very good reason for hating him. He may have been responsible for Donata's death."

"But - but what would Mum's death have to do with _Emma_?" asked Josh, looking confused. "They never even met."

"Ah, but that's the point." Humphrey gestured at Josh. " _You_ were the one who gave me the clue, although it had been nagging at me for a while before. You very conveniently reminded me of the strong resemblance between Emilia and your mother. In fact, the three of you are very alike. You, Eddie and Emilia – all of you have the same colouring and facial features, almost as if you have the same mother and father. You've inherited your looks from your mothers, who are _also_ surprisingly alike. Dwayne thought it might simply be that your father's first and second wives were similar in appearance, both being blonde and blue-eyed, but it was _more_ than that."

He looked at Clive. "Do you remember meeting Donata's English family – her mother's side?"

Clive had been busy staring at his wife in disbelief and visibly started at the sudden question. "Um, well, _yes_. She didn't come to the funeral but when the boys and I went back to Britain, we had a memorial service for Donata. We didn't keep in touch with her mother after that." He paused reflectively. "Her parents were divorced when she was a child and she wasn't close to her mother. To be honest, I'm not sure her mother cared all that much. She seemed quite cold, and she had no interest in the boys at all, unlike _my_ parents."

"I see. Do you remember if Donata's half-sister was there?"

Clive frowned, bewildered. " _What_ half-sister? Donata didn't have one."

Humphrey nodded, emphatically. "Ah, but she _did_. Her mother remarried and had another daughter when Donata was eighteen. Donata never talked about her to you because it was a sore point – she resented her mother for leaving her father. But she _did_ have a half-sister, and that person was Emma Lawrence – or Emma Morris as she was at that time." He glanced over at Camille, who gave another quick nod. "Fidel has been on the phone checking your marriage and birth certificates – he was able to confirm the details just after you arrived here today."

There was a shocked silence. Emma drew a harsh trembling breath and stared ahead of her, ignoring her husband.

Humphrey gave Clive a sympathetic look. "You couldn’t possibly have known that you were married to your first wife's half-sister.  Their maiden names weren’t the same, and you never met Emma’s mother, did you?"

The man looked utterly shattered as he gazed at his second wife. "I _know_ I didn't meet you before you started working at the Foreign Office," he muttered.  “I’m _positive_ I didn’t.”

Emma glanced at him briefly before focusing on Humphrey again. It was hard to tell what emotion, if any, was hidden behind her frozen expression.

"You probably didn't," Humphrey commented. "I don't imagine Emma wanted to go to a memorial service held for the half-sister that she had never met."

"So then why would she want to kill Jonathan Masters?" Josh asked. "You made it sound as if she wanted revenge for Mum's death…but then you suggest that she didn't care about her anyway."

Until this point, Emma had remained apparently unaffected, but at this point she burst out with such a passion that Patterson jumped. "I _didn't_! She didn't want to have anything to do with me, so why on earth should I care what happened to her?"

Humphrey shrugged. "You didn't. However, you _did_ care about your mother." He glanced at Clive. "Clive, you didn't keep in touch with Donata's mother, so you wouldn't have known that she was admitted to a psychiatric institution the following year. She had been struggling with mental health issues for years. Her second husband had died of cancer, and I suspect she also regretted her estrangement from her older daughter. Donata's death was probably the last straw, wasn't it, Emma?" He glanced at the text message from Serena Hope on his phone. "According to the psychiatrist who treated her at that time, she was admitted for attempting suicide so that she could 'be with her daughter'. That's an exact quote."

He looked up and his eyes softened as he met Emma's eyes. "That must have been terribly difficult for _you_. You were – what? – only twenty when Donata died, in your last year of a library degree at University, and you had to deal with a suicidal mother who had to be admitted to a secure psychiatric hospital. You had power of attorney, and she was in and out of hospital for years after that, until she died of a heart attack ten years' ago. You must have felt very alone when you were twenty and having to make decisions that a person twice your age would have struggled with.

"But then, by some extraordinary coincidence, you ended up working in the same place as Clive! Not _quite_ the same place – you were working in the library at the Foreign Office while he was in the diplomatic service. I suppose Clive came in at some point and for some reason struck up a conversation with you." His eyes went to Clive with sympathy – the man looked _devastated_. "I suppose you must have reminded him of the wife he had lost. There's such a strong likeness between you, and for Clive, it must have been like meeting a young Donata again – in terms of _looks_ , that is. In _personality_ , you weren't so alike – Donata was very 'Italian', while you are much more reticent. But anyway, there was an attraction and you fell in love with one another."

He paused, glancing at Josh. "You knew, of course, that he had children and that his first wife had died, so you investigated his background. Clive himself was probably a bit cagey – he didn't want to be reminded of his past. It must have been quite a shock for you to discover the connection! You'd never seen any photos of Donata's family, so you had absolutely no idea that you had fallen for your half-sister's husband.

"You began to make enquiries. I would imagine that Clive refused to say much about Donata's death, and you grew more curious as the years passed. You found out about the fraud case involving Jonathan Masters that Donata had worked on before her death. When you were on Sainte-Marie, you investigated further – looked at the cliff where Donata's car crashed. There have always been rumours on the island from those who knew Donata – she was a good driver and she knew the road too well to make such a mistake. You checked Master's business connections and discovered Law's connection. You suspected one of them for being responsible for Donata's death."

He sighed. "It must have been _so difficult_ for you. You blamed Jonathan Masters and Jessica Law for Donata's death, which had had such a devastating effect on your mother. But what could you do? At the same time, you wanted to protect Clive and your children. So you kept your mouth shut for years, but you still dwelt on it and your resentment grew. And you would probably have carried on that way to the end of your days if Jonathan Masters hadn't decided to get in touch so suddenly."

He looked at Clive. "For some reason, last year, Masters decided to try to blackmail you. He'd had an arrangement with Jessica for years, of course, and we know he was pressuring her to increase the payments. Perhaps he got too greedy? He might have let you off out of sentiment, but suddenly he changed his mind. We'll never know why. But anyway, he had the proof that could bring you down and he started pestering you with e-mails. You ignored them, but Emma saw them – and she recognised the risk to _you_ , and to the entire family."

He focused his attention on Emma again. "You already hated Masters when he wasn't bothering Clive, so for him to _suddenly_ start threatening your husband was just… _unacceptable_. You had to put a stop to it – but _how_? You had to make sure that Clive wasn't anywhere near Nieto at the time – you knew perfectly well that if Master's death had been at all suspicious, the e-mails he sent your husband would be found, putting him under suspicion. So Clive _had_ to be out of Britain at the time. Emilia's eighteenth birthday party was the perfect opportunity.

"There was also the problem of _who_ would carry out the murder and _how_. It wasn't as if you were habitually in touch with assassins in the UK… However, you _knew at least one_ here on Sainte-Marie." He gestured at Nieto. "You'd recently started contracting out some gardening work. I'm curious – how did you know that _Nieto_ would be prepared to do the job for you?"

Emma arched an unimpressed eyebrow at him. Clearly she wasn't prepared to give anything away.

"It was all _my_ fault," Eddie said, suddenly. "I was going to buy something from him." He jerked his head in Nieto's direction. "I was negotiating in the garden and Mum caught us out – I didn't realise anyone else was home. It was Speedball and she was appalled – told me not to be so stupid. She'd known of a student in her university days who'd died from taking that combination."

His mother made no attempt to contradict his statement.

"A _ha_ ," Humphrey went on. "So _that_ was it. You knew that Nieto possessed a dangerous drug and was prepared to use it. You'd probably checked out Master's situation over the years and knew that he was in fragile health with his heavy drinking and smoking. It wouldn't take much to finish him off – a lethal combination of cocaine and heroin would do it quite easily, I should think.

"So you took the risk. You negotiated with Nieto – paid for his ticket and accommodation and since he could hardly take the drug into Britain himself, you needed to provide twenty thousand pounds in cash – both as a fee and as a means for him to purchase the drug in London. He almost certainly has various contacts in Britain and Europe for his trafficking activities."

He glanced at Emma's stricken husband. "Clive knew nothing of this. We found the details in your household expenses spreadsheet, but they were for _your_ account, not his. You had your own fortune – you'd already inherited plenty of money from your father, and then the rest after your mother's death. You could quite easily pay Nieto to do the job.

"So…that was that. You must have kept a careful eye on the news when you were in Britain earlier this year. Master's death hardly warranted more than a footnote in the local papers – ex-fraudster dead of an overdose. So you knew your plan had worked and that he wouldn't be bothering your husband ever again."

He took his eyes off Emma to look at Camille again. She shook her head very slightly. He suppressed a sigh, knowing she was right. So far, the evidence was all circumstantial. Without a confession, they could never make the conviction stick.

He refocused on Emma. "But then, unfortunately for you, Josh had started his own investigations into Masters… Even as you breathed a sigh of relief over Master's death, your own daughter was being drawn in to the case."

He paused and sighed. This was the bit he hated most, but it had to be done. He gentled his voice as he went on.

"I don't think you _ever_ wanted Emilia to get involved. Your motive was to protect your family…but it all went tragically wrong, didn't it?"

He glanced at her hands; they were visibly shaking as she stared blankly ahead of her.

"What was it that Emilia found on Clive's computer? You may as well tell us; we'll find out anyway."

She paused for a long moment and he thought she wouldn't respond. But then, finally, she sighed and began to speak in a low voice.

"She had found the e-mails from Master and also the e-mail conversation Clive had been having with his solicitor." She glanced at her husband, giving him a crooked little half-smile, which he didn't return. "I think he thought that no one would be able to get into his e-mails, but he's never been great about security. In it, he told his solicitor that he feared Masters had enough evidence for him to be prosecuted for fraud and he wanted advice on how it might be covered up."

She paused again and Humphrey prompted her: "And you found her in the study on Saturday morning, didn't you?"

She looked at him. "Yes. She had the computer on and I could see what she was looking at. She was on the phone talking to someone; I could guess what it was about. I told her to disconnect the call, but she refused." An odd expression passed over her pale face; Humphrey thought it might be a kind of reluctant pride. "She was just _furious_! I could see it, she was shaking with rage. The only other time I'd seen her so angry was when she found out that Eddie was supplying drugs. She...you see, Emilia had a very strong sense of right and wrong. She either loved something or she hated it. Always black and white, never any shades of grey with her. It didn't matter who you were or what the circumstances were, if you did something wrong, you confessed to it."

She looked at her husband. A brief glance of recognition, understanding even, passed between them and he nodded slowly. She looked back at Humphrey.

"She was angry with Clive for getting into this position in the first place and for not confessing to it at the time. She wanted to know if Donata knew about it and if that was why she had died. I couldn't tell her that, because I didn't know – I just _didn't know for certain_. She wanted to ask Clive, but I begged her not to; I _begged_ her not to hurt him. She backed down a little but said there was someone she needed to talk to first and then she'd decide. I guessed it was the person on the phone, but I had no idea who – I thought it must be the police, so I told her that it would ruin Clive if he was arrested. She could see how upset I was, and in the end she told me it was nothing to do with the police, that the man on the phone was Clive's son Josh and he simply wanted to know if Jessica Law had had anything to do with Donata's death. I could tell that she was wavering, that she didn't want to see him, but she said that she'd made a promise and she had to keep it. But she also promised me that it would be the last time she'd have anything to do with Josh – she said that she'd meet him tonight and tell him what she had found out and then that would be the end of it as far as she was concerned. She assured me that he didn't want to involve the police, he was only wanted to find out about his mother. We agreed that Clive mustn't know that Josh was here on the island."

The floodgates were open now; she spoke quickly, running sentences into each other, as if she couldn't get her story out fast enough. She paused, gasping for breath before continuing.

"I – I didn't want anything to happen to her! I loved her – I love her… I didn't want her to meet him but she was determined and I couldn't stop her…"

She stopped, unable to go on. Tears ran freely down her face, and Patterson put a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

"I know," Humphrey said, quietly. "That's the big tragedy in this. If you hadn't arranged Masters' death in the first place, you wouldn't have got involved with a drug trafficker and callous murderer with little respect for human life. Did you _really_ think that it would be possible to carry on as before, as if nothing had ever happened? Despite your sordid little arrangement with him, you continued to employ Nieto to maintain your garden. Possibly you were too scared of him to cancel the contract. Anyway, on Saturday morning, he was working in the garden. You were arguing with Emilia in the study, with the window open. I know that because I heard the conversation she had with Josh. It was _your_ voice we could hear in the background – Camille thought she recognised it but wasn't sure. And then I remembered hearing the sound of the Guadeloupe ferry as it approached the harbour. Exactly the same as this morning, when Camille and I were in the study…and we had the windows open then too.

"So Nieto heard the entire conversation. He knew that Emilia had found out about Clive's involvement with Jonathan Masters and that she intended to pass her information on Josh Lawrence. He didn't need anyone to start investigating potential links between the Lawrences and Masters' death.

"Of course he had no idea where Josh Lawrence might be, but he had a stroke of luck. He'd heard her tell Josh to text a location to meet up later on. He'd also heard from one of his associates, another embittered former employee of Jessica Law – and this man had been contacted by a certain journalist, who was offering to pay him for information about certain events that took place twenty-five years' ago. The man had asked Nieto what he could and couldn't say. Nieto put two and two together and realised that this unknown journalist must be Josh."

He looked at Nieto. "You told this man to give Josh the run-around, didn't you? He was to invite Josh to the party, because then Josh would invite Emilia to the same place. But then he was to draw Josh away and force him to follow him around for half the night, so that Emilia wasn't able to meet him immediately.

"You were at that party with another of your associates, a young woman who we will be tracking down to have a little chat with. You saw Emilia arguing with Eddie and then you saw Eddie going off to make his little transaction with Daniel Le Fondre – oh yes, you knew all about that little side-line and you made certain that Daniel and his brother paid for it by doing whatever you told them to without asking any questions. You've got a lot of these little 'associates', haven't you? People who 'owe' you favours that they can't get out of. I imagine this woman has a similar problem.

"You had already decided what you would do with Emilia. She would get the same treatment as Masters, although there was every chance that she might survive. That's the thing about Speedball. It's an incredibly dangerous combination of drugs and it's impossible to tell who _will_ survive. Emilia might have, but she would still be in no condition to give Josh any coherent information. You did it quite simply in the end – all you had to do was contrive to bump into Emilia and inject the needle into her upper arm under cover of 'accidentally' burning her arm with your cigarette. She reacted as anyone would in the circumstances, you probably apologised profusely, as any clumsy smoker would have done, and she walked away, rubbing her arm and perhaps wondering why it hurt so much. She would have seen the burn but not noticed the needle mark – if she _had_ , she might have realised what had happened and sought medical help before it was too late."

He paused. "I'm not going to dwell on the next few hours for Emilia, but I can't imagine they were pleasant ones for someone who had never taken drugs before. By the time she realised something was wrong, she wouldn't have been in a position to do anything about it. She must have been terribly confused and disorientated. The cocaine would have given her an adrenaline rush, but by the time she met Josh, the effects would have been wearing off, leaving the depressant effects of the heroin. She would have felt aggressive and hostile and probably extremely unwell." He looked at Josh. "She didn't react very well to you in the circumstances. The heroin dose was fatal… The evidence suggests that shortly after you left her, she went into respiratory arrest and died."

He turned his attention back to Nieto, looking at the man with extreme dislike. "Your female associate had stolen Eddie's newly purchased joint from his pocket earlier on and given it to you. You and she were keeping an eye on Emilia; you saw that she had collapsed behind the sofa."

He paused, trying to keep calm. "You want to know what _really_ gets me about that? _You didn't even know if she was alive or dead at that point_. Did you even _care_ about what you'd done? If you'd called for help, you might just have saved an innocent young woman's life. Well, I guess we'll never know."

Nieto stared at him, blank-faced.

Humphrey struggled to suppress his revulsion. "While you and the woman were there, masquerading as two more passed-out party-goers, Eddie came in and found his sister. In all the confusion, you burst into action. You were able to push Eddie aside and pretend to resuscitate Emilia while planting your evidence – you put residue from the joint in her mouth and on her fingers and left it lying on the floor nearby. All the time, your associate was drawing attention from what you were doing by ringing the emergency services and talking in a loud, panicky voice. When the paramedics arrived, you and she simply melted away."

He looked up at the uniformed officers. "You can take him away. Charge him for the murders of Jonathan Masters and Emilia Lawrence, and also the attempted murders of Camille and myself. And the drug trafficking, of course, and supply of a dangerous drug that is known to have caused the death of at least six people on this island... And I want his companion found and brought in as quickly as possible. Put the entire team on it."

Nieto was led out. He made no attempt to struggle or to communicate with anyone, and Humphrey reflected with disgust that he almost certainly felt no remorse for his part in either Masters' or Emilia's deaths. There was no helping such a monster, and with any luck his crimes would see him put away for the rest of his life.

He looked at Emma Lawrence. She was sobbing openly now, although quietly. Patterson still had a hand on her shoulder, but his face was stony and he made no other attempt to soothe her. Clive had his head in his hands. Eddie's head was drooping, his face pale and sad as he looked away from his mother.

"Emma Lawrence, you are under arrest for colluding in the murder of Jonathan Masters and for perverting the course of justice. There may be _other_ charges, but that's enough to be going on with. Dwayne, please -."

She sobbed loudly as Dwayne pulled her to her feet and handcuffed her. "I'm sorry… Clive, I'm _so_ sorry… Please forgive me…"

Clive Lawrence kept his face buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking, as his wife was led out of the room.


	25. Chapter 25

Humphrey rubbed his hands over his face, wearily.

There were times when finding the solution to a mystery gave him great satisfaction. This was not one of those times.

He looked at Clive and Eddie Lawrence. The father and son looked utterly broken; their family ripped apart. Selwyn Patterson watched them, sorrow etched into his face. Even the hard-faced Jessica Law looked subdued.

Josh had been contemplating his hands. After a moment, he looked up suddenly, breaking the silence. "So, was Ernest Nieto _also_ responsible for my mother's death?"

Humphrey opened his mouth to reply, but Jessica Law beat him to it. "Not due to _me_. Whatever you may think of me, I _never_ ordered anyone's death."

Patterson glared at her, but Humphrey nodded in agreement. "You didn't, that's quite true…although I suppose that in a way, you _were_ still responsible for her death." He raised his hand as she opened her mouth to protest. "No _wait_ , hear me out. We've been through the old telephone records and we found that Donata had indeed phoned Patterson from home on that day. As we know, the Commissioner was in a meeting, but one of his assistants took the call. Donata said she was on the way to meet him but she never made it."

He looked at Patterson. "You thought that it was unlikely that Donata knew of Clive's involvement in Masters' scheme, because if she _had_ , she'd have spoken to Clive _first_ before bringing her evidence to you. That's probably true, and when she phoned your office, she really didn't know. But what _you_ don't know is that after she put the phone down and just before she left the house, Donata took another call. It was from Jessica Law."

He looked at Jessica. "Do you remember that call?"

The woman paused but then nodded her head, reluctantly. "I told her to leave me alone. I… _implied_ that her husband might not be as ignorant about Jonathan's fraudulent activities as he seemed to be. But she didn't believe me; she told me in no uncertain terms not to try to contact her again."

Humphrey nodded. "She probably didn't believe you – her initial reaction would have been that you were making it up just to scare her. However, Donata was no fool. When she first left the house, she would have been focused on the evidence she had that you had stolen money from Masters' accounts after his arrest. But while she was driving along, her mind would have been on what you had said. She would have been considering the evidence and she may have realised that there might, after all, be some truth in your words. She would have been distracted. She certainly wouldn't have been as focused on a difficult stretch of the coast road as she should have been."

He looked at Josh seriously. "I'm afraid we'll probably _never_ know for certain if your mother's death really _was_ an accident, but there's no evidence that it _wasn't_. One thing we _do_ know for certain – Nieto was not there. We have proof that he was on Guadeloupe working on a business transaction for Jessica at the same time. Although it does seem that he had been following Donata around, possibly to intimidate her or simply to monitor her activities, he definitely _wasn't_ on that day. I'm sorry that your investigations have come to nothing."

Josh gave him a grave look before turning towards his father and half-brother. "I'm sorry too… but not for that reason. If I hadn't got involved in the first place, Emilia might still be alive."

Humphrey didn't try to deny it. Josh didn't look like the type who would accept false platitudes. He would take the guilt he felt for Emilia's death to his grave. Humphrey only hoped he wouldn't allow it to embitter him or to stop the good work he could do. Idly, he wondered whether Josh would ever consider a change of career. He was a good man with a strong sense of justice and an excellent investigator. They could do with a man like him on the team…

He glanced at Camille, wondering whether she had the same thought… and was struck by the warmth in her eyes as she gazed at him. He felt an answering glow in his chest even as he began to feel the events of the past few days catching up with him. That hospital bed suddenly seemed very inviting. He wasn't even tempted to try checking out of the hospital this time.

"Wait a minute though," Jessica said, suddenly. "You said you'd tell me who it was who tried to kill me earlier – and so far you haven't. It couldn't have been Ernest if you already had him in custody."

Humphrey felt an odd urge to laugh. "That's true - I haven't, have I? I do apologise. In all the excitement, we haven't had a chance to look at the CCTV or speak to the security guard at the gate yet, but Fidel and Dwayne will be onto it, just as soon as they've made Nieto and Emma comfortable in the cells at the station. And that's why I told Emma that there might be other charges. You see, I think we'll find that the images will show that it was _her_ driving the car that nearly hit you."

Clive dropped his hands and looked at Humphrey incredulously.

"I believe -," Humphrey went on, "- that Emilia's death was the last straw for Emma. She'd managed to carry on somehow after Masters' death, but it must have been a terrible strain. She's no hardened criminal like Ernest Nieto and although she was probably glad to be rid of Masters, I suspect she felt pretty guilty too. And she was probably terrified of Nieto. He would be able to hold what she had done over her for the rest of her life. At any time he could have threatened to reveal their little arrangement. And that was assuming that no one else found out.

"When she was told about Emilia's death, she must have known _immediately_ that it was murder. She knew that her daughter would never have experimented with drugs. She didn't know that Emilia had died in exactly the same manner as Jonathan Masters, but she must have been at least suspicious. But what could she do? There was no sign of Nieto. Did she try to contact him later on Sunday? We can probably try to find out. But she certainly knew that Josh was involved in some way with Emilia's death and she needed to know who was responsible."

He paused for a moment and looked at Camille. "We'll know more when Camille takes Emma's full statement tomorrow, but what I _think_ happened is this. Emma didn't know that Nieto had overheard her conversation with Emilia. She probably thought that Josh had uncovered some information about Jessica, and that Jessica was paying Nieto to kill both Emilia and Josh. For all she knew, Josh was already dead or would be soon. And she didn't know whether or not Emilia had given him the information that implicated Clive before she was killed. She was terrified that the information would end up in Jessica's hands if Josh was also murdered.

"She had to act quickly. She had no idea where Josh was staying, but I imagine she knew about Julien's bungalow in the grounds of Jessica's hotel. She may even have visited it with you sometime, when Julien was staying there?" He looked at Clive, who nodded his confirmation.

"I thought so. It was a gamble, but yesterday evening, she slipped away from the house, probably on the pretext of needing to be by herself for a while. You keep a speedboat in the harbour and she took it out – that in itself wouldn't necessarily be that suspicious. She took the boat around the headland and into the bay where the hotel is located, moored it in a quiet location and slipped into the hotel grounds. She used a moored rowing boat to approach Josh's bungalow across the lake. She didn't notice Camille, Josh and I slipping away as she approached.

"She had a gun – she'd probably purchased that out of her fear for Nieto." He looked at Josh. "I doubt she'd _intended_ to kill you. More likely she had it for defence, in case Nieto was there. She didn't stop long – her purpose was to find any damning evidence in your possession. Once she'd rifled through the papers and realised there was nothing there, she slipped away, returned to her boat and headed home again.

"As the bungalow was open but there was no sign of Josh, she may have thought she was too late – he might have been killed and any evidence he had removed. She may have assumed that Jessica already had it. It's possible she was planning her next move after Clive left home the following morning, but then Camille and I arrived to look at Emilia's room and the study, so she was stuck. We assumed she was elsewhere in the house when we looked around the study…and she _was_. She was hiding in the garden, listening to our conversation.

"She heard me say something that was of great significance to her. I'm still not _entirely_ clear what I said before I collapsed, but Camille tells me that I said 'Jessica Law' very clearly." He glanced at Camille, who nodded. " _Camille_ took it that I meant Jessica was responsible for Emilia's murder, whereas in _fact_ I think I had just realised that she would be the next victim. I was trying to warn Camille but it didn't come out well.

"Emma _also_ heard the name and she came to the same conclusion as Camille. I assume she went back into the house by the kitchen door and then came running when Camille called for help, and then called the ambulance and so on. And Camille followed the ambulance to the hospital, leaving Emma alone and free to act."

He frowned. "What I'm _not_ sure about is why it took so long for her to act. I was unconscious for a few hours, so she had plenty of time."

"I think I can answer that," Clive said, slowly. "I was worried about Emma – didn't like to leave her alone for so long. I had been at the funeral directors making arrangements for Emilia, and then I was planning to have tea with Selwyn and then collect Eddie from his friend's house. I phoned some friends of ours and asked them to ring her and try to convince her to meet them in town and go to lunch with them – take her mind off things and so on. When Eddie and I came home, she said she'd only got back a few minutes before us, having had lunch with them. I did think that was a bit odd, because it was half past five by then, and lunch couldn't have taken _that_ long. But then your sergeant called and asked us to meet you here at the hospital, so I didn't get a chance to ask her any more about it."

Humphrey nodded. "Yes…that explains the time delay." He gave Jessica a serious look. "You were _extremely_ lucky. It was about half past four when I sent Josh to the hotel, and you were nearly knocked over at ten to five. I imagine we will find that she took the gun with her – she had nothing to lose by then. After all, she'd been unable to protect her family and she believed that you had arranged her daughter's death. She drove through the gates and stopped near the hotel entrance, trying to decide what to do. But then you came out suddenly, and she had a sudden instinct - to put her foot on the accelerator and crash into you. It was only Josh's quick reactions that saved your life."

He watched the businesswoman taking this in; noted the instinctive shudder she gave as she realised how close she had come to losing her life. For a moment, her eyes were soft as she gave Josh another nod of acknowledgment. They hardened again as she turned back to Humphrey.

"So, what happens now? I suppose you have all the evidence you need to take me into custody – and him too," she added, nodding towards Clive.

Eddie stiffened in his seat and looked at her incredulously. "What – after all he's been through? You're really going to charge him for something that happened so long ago? I mean, the main culprit already served a sentence for it."

"We _do_ have the evidence," Camille pointed out, but gently. "And there are victims who were never fully recompensed."

Humphrey hesitated, looking at Patterson. The Commissioner looked back at him, face perfectly neutral once more. "How many people were conned? Do we have a list of them?"

Patterson nodded. "That can be arranged."

"OK…" Humphrey looked around at his remaining audience. "This is what I suggest. We can't possibly hide the fact that Clive invested in Jonathan's scheme – that'll probably come out at the trials of both Emma and Ernest. But there's no _actual_ evidence that Clive knew, only that he gave Jonathan money and might have assumed that it was for a legitimate business venture."

He looked at Clive. "If I were you, I should stick to that story and let's see how it plays out."

Clive hesitated, looking rather confused. "I'll do that, but… But _you_ know the truth."

" _No_." Humphrey shook his head. "I didn't _know_ for certain, I simply _deduced_. We haven't seen the e-mail you sent to your solicitor. Camille has only seen the ones Masters sent to you, and they're vague enough to be counted as simply a man claiming to have evidence he didn't actually possess. Your solicitor has the e-mail of course, but what exactly did you say to him? Only that you feared that Masters might have some evidence. That's not admissible in court – you could simply have felt threatened by Masters' language. I really don't think he had anything that could be used against you. Masters' sister gave his laptop and papers to Josh, and you didn't find anything concrete, did you Josh?"

Josh shook his head. "Not a thing. Just the e-mails he'd sent you, Dad. His laptop has been wiped and destroyed now."

Humphrey turned to Jessica. "That leaves _you_. You claimed to have some evidence, which you so kindly passed a copy of to Patterson, twenty five years ago, but it was only evidence that he unwisely gave some money to Masters. Of course, there's a risk that either Nieto or Emma will reveal something in their trials, inadvertently or not. But I think we should cross that hurdle when we come to it."

"And what do _I_ get out of keeping quiet?" Jessica asked, with a humourless little smile.

Humphrey matched the smile with one of his own. "I won't arrest you today and charge you with embezzlement. I have enough evidence now – the amounts you were paying to Masters and the communications you have had over the years are proof enough." He shrugged. "Although, to be honest, I suspect you've more than paid for it over the years. There's _one_ condition, though." He looked sternly between Clive, Patterson and Jessica. "Patterson will provide a list of victims who were left out of pocket and the two of you will pay them back, including a suitable rate of interest for the last twenty five years. You can arrange this through Patterson – he can explain to their lawyers that some of the missing funds were re-appropriated by chance."

Patterson looked at him for a moment, a mysterious little smile on his face. "I can arrange that."

Jessica and Clive gave each other tense little nods of agreement.

Josh shrugged, looking resigned. "That suits me. I only cared about justice for my mother, anyway, and God knows I wish I'd never even started this in the first place. I'll regret the outcome for the rest of my life. I'll pass all the information I have over to you, Humphrey."

Humphrey looked up at Camille. She was frowning, her arms folded, and he could tell that she didn't entirely approve of what Humphrey had decided. Eventually she shrugged and raised an eyebrow.

"Good." Humphrey sighed, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted. "I leave it to you to sort out, Commissioner. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to be left alone. I feel as if I could sleep for two days' straight."

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Five days later**

Fidel unlocked the door of the beach house, applying pressure with his foot when it didn't immediately give. He dumped Humphrey's bag just inside the door.

"Door's getting a bit stiff, boss. You should get someone in to take a look. Jez is the man you want; I can give him a ring if you like?"

"Nah. Don't worry. I can sort that out myself." Humphrey walked a little stiffly up the balcony steps. He was accompanied by Camille, who hovered in the background, one hand outstretched, as if to stop any potential fall. He gritted his teeth against his irritation. She meant well, but Camille was not the world's most natural nurse, as the last few days had shown him all too well.

He pretended not to notice the slightly concerned look that passed between the two of them. He knew his DIY skills weren't the best, but it was just a stiff door, for heaven's sake! How difficult could it be to sand the edges down a bit?

Perhaps not today, though. He sank into one of the balcony armchairs, sighing partly in relief and partly in pleasure at the view he had been missing.

He had been beginning to think he'd never get discharged from the hospital. Although the wound was now healing nicely, he was still on a powerful regimen of antibiotics and the doctor had only agreed to release him if he promised not to undertake any active detective work for at least another week. After many assurances that the furthest he would venture would be the station and the supermarket, he was finally allowed to leave. The strong drugs made him feel woozy, though, and he was not sorry that he was still signed off for a few more days.

It was Sunday again – extraordinary that so much had happened in just one week – and Dwayne was on-call, but Camille and Fidel had been happy to collect him from hospital.

During his absence from work, a lot had happened. Full statements had been obtained from Emma Lawrence and Ernest Nieto, and both had been shipped off to the larger police station on Guadeloupe. There was some debate over where the trials would be held and in what order. Both Emma and Nieto would need to be tried in London over Jonathan Masters' death, since that was where the crime had taken place, but there was also the small matter of Nieto's role in Emilia's murder, the unlawful drug-related deaths of half a dozen local people, and Camille's and Humphrey's drugging and abduction. If they were both shipped off to London, the local prosecutors argued, it was unlikely that either would return, and Nieto would essentially get away with his local crimes, since Emma was a key witness in the matter of her daughter's murder.

Daniel and Antoine Le Fondre also needed to be charged locally alongside Nieto for their involvement in the distribution of the unsafe drug and in Humphrey and Camille's abduction. Josephine Parker, a young American living on the island, had been identified as the woman working alongside Nieto at the party and had been apprehended. She faced charges of drug trafficking but, after taking her statement, Humphrey and Camille decided not to charge her for aiding and abetting in Emilia's murder, since there was no firm evidence that she had known what Nieto had really intended to do. Both she and the Le Fondre boys showed obvious signs of relief that they were no longer under Ernest Nieto's control.

While the endless debates between the Guadeloupe and London prosecutors and lawyers took place, the Lawrence family were very much in limbo. Clive and Eddie had gone to Guadeloupe to be nearer to Emma. Initially, Selwyn Patterson had accompanied them, but had returned once a British Embassy-appointed representative was available to assist them.

Clive had given Patterson power of attorney over several of his bank accounts, and the Commissioner was engaged in the unenviable task of getting various funds transferred so that the victims of Masters' fraud could finally be compensated. Some of them had died in the meantime, so the potential descendants had to be traced. Much to everyone's surprise, Josh Lawrence had offered to stay on for a while to help Patterson with this task. Since the Commissioner couldn't risk involving his own staff, Humphrey suspected he was extremely grateful for the help. No doubt the wily civil servant would be offering Josh a job opportunity at some stage… but Humphrey would be very surprised if the restless and adventurous young journalist decided to settle on Sainte-Marie.

Some of the released funds would come from the sale of the Lawrence's Sainte-Marie house. Since Emma was likely to serve her prison sentence in Britain, and since Clive and Eddie were hardly likely to want to return to a place with such sad memories, this was not really much of a surprise. In addition to his research for Patterson, Josh was also busy clearing the family's property and keeping in close communication with his father over what should be disposed of or packed up for dispatch to their London home. He was expecting his brother Julien to join him shortly to help out. Humphrey hoped that this older sibling, reputedly fairly calm and level-headed, would be able to sort things out for the rest of the family. He knew Josh was hoping that Julien would take Eddie back to Britain with him and find a suitable drug rehabilitation programme.

As it turned out, Emma would face no charges on Guadeloupe. Although she had confessed to an attempt to run Jessica Law over, much to everyone's surprise, Law had agreed not to seek a prosecution. She was probably occupied with her own financial worries; due to the considerable payments she had made to Masters over the years, which really _did_ amount to more than she'd originally stolen from him, she didn't have much money in reserve. What she had was sunk into her business.  After some discussion with Patterson, she had decided to sell her hotel chain on Sainte-Marie in order to pay over the money. At that point, she'd probably cut her losses and leave the island for good, to retire back in her home country.

Humphrey had had all this information relayed to him during Camille's daily visits. It was perhaps just as well that he'd finally been released. Camille, by her own admission, was a poor nurse, squeamish and uncertain around the sick and injured. She was prone to sudden bouts of irritation, which he suspected was just a cover for her concern. When, the day after the denouement, Humphrey's temperature had soared again for no discernible reason, he'd been distantly aware of Camille pacing back and forth in the background, while the doctors and nurses worked to bring it down again.

Surprisingly, the hospital staff hadn't insisted on her leaving. They seemed to assume she must be his significant other. The fact that she _wasn't_ just seemed to add to the tension between them. As he became stronger, the tension seemed to grow by increments, until they could barely have a civil conversation without a minor flare-up over some small point or another. And yet, she stayed. She might have walked off for a while and there might have been a few grooves worn into the floor of the hospital room by her restless prowling, but she still stayed. Humphrey had grown used to the comforting sensation of a cool hand stroking gently across his brow or resting lightly on his hand whenever he slipped into sleep or began to wake up. As he seemed to spend a lot of his time in hospital napping at the oddest times, this happened quite frequently. After a few days, he was beginning to wonder precisely _where_ and _when_ she slept.

He eyed her now as she hovered nearby, as if uncertain what to do. Fidel had wandered into the house, muttering something about getting Humphrey a drink.

"I suppose I should probably go -," she began, gesturing towards the jeep, but he stopped her quickly with a hand on her arm before he could think any better of it.

"Don't go. You've got the day off anyway. Please, just… stay?"

She gave him an awkward smile and sat down in the other armchair. He noticed the tension seeping from her body as she sighed, closing her eyes for a moment.

" _You_ haven't had much rest, have you?" he asked, noting the dark circles under her eyes.

She opened her eyes again. "Between getting the statements, arranging the prison transfers, bringing in the Le Fondres and Josephine Parker, and trying to keep the station going? Not really. To say nothing of visiting _you_. I'll catch up tonight."

"You didn't _need_ to keep visiting me every five minutes." He smiled, to take the sting out of it. "But I have to admit that I'm very glad that you _did_."

She raised a wry eyebrow. " _Really_? I didn't seem to do much apart from annoy you. If it hadn't been for Maman…"

They both grimaced. It was true that Catherine, with a natural mothering instinct that her daughter seemed to lack, had taken over Humphrey's care. She'd plied him with her 'restorative' chicken soup, which admittedly was a step-up from the hospital food, and had been the one who had brought the most practical things to his hospital room, such as cooling wet wipes. However, she'd also fetched his spare pyjamas and insisted on laundering his dirty clothes, much to his embarrassment, and had lectured him sternly on the need to take much better care of himself, while her daughter had cringed and various young nurses had giggled in the background.

"You were just _there_ ," he said, simply.

Her eyes softened and she opened her mouth to speak, just as Fidel came back onto the balcony. Humphrey suppressed a sigh of irritation as the officer placed a steaming mug on the table next to him.

" _What_?" he said, defensively as Humphrey stared at it in disbelief. "It's _tea_ , that's all. The doc said you couldn't have alcohol and there's nothing in your fridge apart from beer." He went back inside and fetched two more mugs, passing one of them to Camille.

"It's about a hundred degrees today, Fidel!"

"It'll cool you down." He sat on one of the dining chairs on the balcony, angling it back so he could put his feet up on the railing. He took a sip of his tea and gave a satisfied sigh. "No, _really_ , it will. That's what Richard Poole always used to say and I'm sure he was right."

Camille gave Humphrey a sympathetic smile as she sipped from her mug.

Resigned, he picked up the mug and sipped from it. The steam from the tea made his face flush as he blew on it, but oddly the brew did refresh him a little. It was approaching midday and he could tell that this was going to be one of those sweltering days that would only be mitigated by a fierce rainstorm in the late afternoon. After that, there'd be a fresher breeze and a sweet smell of flowers drifting from the rainforest behind him. Until then, he had no intention of moving from his current shady spot.

Fidel idly surveyed the view. "Dwayne said he'd come over when he could. It's going to be a quiet day, I reckon."

"I hope you're right." Humphrey sipped the tea again and felt his drowsiness clearing. Fidel had made it quite strong which probably wasn't a bad thing, as he didn't want to fall asleep. The drugs had leeched a lot of his energy, but now that he was out of hospital, he wanted to get his circadian rhythms back to normal.

His eyes flew open as he remembered the one bit of work he _had_ had to deal with. "So, how's the preparation for the interview going?"

"Oh…OK, I think." Fidel dipped his head, uncertainly. "I'm sorry you had to deal with my reference when you were in hospital. It all happened a bit sooner than I thought."

"It's OK, I was very happy to – although we'll miss having you around here."

Camille leaned forward. "Are you _absolutely_ sure about this? It'll be a big change – for all of you."

The young man hesitated but then nodded. "It's the right thing to do. Juliette's thinking about getting back to work part-time, and there are far more opportunities on St. Lucia. And…" he hesitated again, a little embarrassed. "…well, it's an opportunity to progress. I'm sorry, Sir, but you know what I mean."

Humphrey nodded, warmly. "You're doing the right thing, and I support you all the way." He paused. "Does Dwayne know?"

"Um, not yet," Fidel confessed. "I didn't like to say anything until I knew I would definitely get the job."

"Well, you'll definitely get it – that's a given. They'd be foolish _not_ to accept you." He glanced at Camille. "I would tell him if I were you." He knew how fond Dwayne was of his younger colleague – it'd be a shock for him to not have Fidel around.

Camille nodded. "Get him used to the idea."

"OK, I will." Fidel looked at the bay again and sighed. "I'm going to miss this place, though."

The trio subsided into a comfortable silence. Humphrey drained his mug and tried not to think of the pleasure of a cold beer. The waves lapped gently at the shore and a warm but not unpleasant breeze ruffled his hair.

He laughed suddenly. "I _still_ find it hard to believe my luck when I look out at that view. Most people in Britain would associate such a scene with a luxury travel website."

Camille gave a little hum of agreement. "When I was in Paris, I never thought I'd come back here. You know, when you grow up in such a place, you don't appreciate what you have."

"Would you…" he swallowed nervously. "Would you ever want to…go back?"

She looked at him, her eyes warm. "Maybe. It depends…on certain things. Would _you_ move to Paris?"

He laughed, even as he gave it serious consideration. "Maybe. It depends…on certain things. Mind you, I'm not quite sure Paris is ready for Humphrey Goodman!"

"It wasn't so long ago that I wasn't sure that _Sainte-Marie_ was ready for Humphrey Goodman," she murmured.

"And now?" He found he couldn't tear his eyes from her face.

She smiled at him, a small private smile meant only for him – or so he told himself. "I've changed my mind."

Fidel coughed meaningfully, drawing their attention. He stood up, draining his mug. "I'd better get off back home. Dwayne was going to collect me, but he must have been held up."

"Take the jeep," Camille told him, passing the keys over. "I won't need it for the rest of the day."

"Sure." His eyes passed quickly between them. "I take it I won't see you at Catherine's later?"

"Probably not tonight," Humphrey said, quickly. "Not me, anyway. I'd be too tempted to sample the rum punch."

"Right." He smiled and gave them an idle wave as he strolled off.

Humphrey huffed out a short laugh, partly out of embarrassment. "It's not hard to work out what _he_ suspects."

"Poor Fidel," Camille commented. "He wants to be shocked, but he doesn't know how to. He knows the _regulations_." She emphasised the last word.

"Hmm, yes, the regulations." It was something that had been in the back of Humphrey's mind, just as it had been in Richard's before his death. There were clear rules about fraternisation between senior officers and their immediate juniors.

There was a moment's silence between them. Humphrey eventually broke it.

"To be honest, I didn't think the regulations were relevant. I mean, I didn't think you had any feelings for _me_ in any case – I thought it was just me who felt that way. It seemed as if Richard…" His voice trailed away.

"Yes. I think I need to explain," she said, slowly. "I won't deny that I had – that I _have_ – feelings for Richard. I…well, I think that if he hadn't died that day, we might have had a chance. I think I loved him – I might have been in love with him, given the opportunity." She laughed, a little tremulously. "And then _we_ would have had the professional dilemma! Would I have left my job or would he? Where would we have lived?"

Humphrey smiled despite the ache in his heart. "The real question might have been: was _London_ prepared for Camille Bordey?"

"True." She sighed. "But it wasn't to be. Richard _did_ die and I think my heart broke a little. I didn't think I could _ever_ get over him. But… but time passes and, little by little, the pain recedes, almost before you realise it. I had to move on. And _you_ -," she smiled at him. "- in the end, I couldn't resist _you_."

"When did you realise that – that… _you_ know.  About me?" he asked, quietly. He didn't dare mention words like 'love'. Not yet. He didn't think she was quite ready for that.

She hesitated, thinking. "Later than you may think. Or...I _suppose_ it was actually earlier, only I didn't realise. But it became _really_ obvious to me in the boathouse."

" _Really_?" Remembering their conversation that day, he was surprised.

"Yes. We were talking about Richard, and I was regretting that I'd never told him how I felt – remember? It'd been a shock when you gave me that diary and I realised that he'd been in love with me all along. And I kept focusing on that and regretting the missed opportunity _so much_. But _you_ – you got me through it. I was so scared, and you held my hand and kept me calm and told me how sorry you were… And – and I just thought 'what am I _doing_?' There _you_ were, so supportive and kind and…well, _loving_ , really, and all I could do was think of a man that I'd already lost forever..."

She paused and he kept quiet, letting her work through her feelings in her own time.

"In fact, I hadn't actually lost him – how could I have, when I'd never even _had_ him in the first place? I mean, OK, the diary suggested that he had feelings for me, and quite possibly he did. And I knew I liked him...but so what? We might have gone out on a few dates, we might have fallen into a relationship...but it's as equally likely that we'd have never taken the risk. Or else we might have just as quickly fallen out of love again. After all, we were very different in personality, so who knows whether we would have survived once the initial spark of romance was over?" She shrugged, smiling ruefully. "I'll never know, and I can't let the speculation dominate the rest of my life. You can't know whether something will work until you try it."

She reached out a hand to him; he took it in both of his. "And all the time, _you_ were there, comforting me…and I suddenly realised that there was _someone_ right there. Not a sad memory of what might have been, but something that _could be_. I'm not saying that _something_ will happen for definite…only that I like you very much, I'm attracted to you, and I think that, given time, I might love you. Maybe I _do_ already, but I have to be sure. Anyway, I'm willing to give it a try…"

He squeezed her hand. "And the regulations?"

"Why don't we take things slowly? A few dates, to see how it goes. If things progress, we can talk to Patterson at that stage. We're both professional and we can be discreet, can't we?"

"Yes, definitely." It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that as soon as he felt up to it, he was planning to see Patterson anyway, to recommend her for the Inspector OSPRE examinations. He'd been concerned that Patterson would only support one inspector post on Sainte-Marie, but after the last case, he felt fairly sure that the Commissioner would give him whatever he asked for, even if it meant expanding the investigations team. There was enough casework to support two teams, and he couldn't think of anyone better qualified for the second senior post than Camille. There were no actual regulations against relationships between police inspectors, as long as one of them wasn't in command of the other. It was slightly frowned upon in the Met, but it wasn't actually illegal.

He smiled and lifted her hand to kiss it; an old-fashioned gesture that she seemed to appreciate, judging by the warmth in her eyes. "So…where do we go from here?"

She laughed, gently. "I'm thinking of a proper date, as soon as you're back on your feet."

"Ah." He shifted, uncomfortably. "I feel I should warn you, Camille, that when it comes to dates, I'm – well, they don't _always_ go to plan…" Horrible visions of knocked-over drinks and stilted conversations assailed him.

"Why am I not surprised?" Her voice was amused. "I'm not talking about a candle-lit dinner; something tells me that it could go badly wrong. I have something else in mind."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes. Remember a week ago, at just about this time? A picnic on a deserted beach with a lovely view? That's what I'd planned for us last week…of course, I hadn't expected it to be our first date."

"Um, I'm _not_ sure I'm quite ready to get back on that bike again," he ventured.

"Neither am I," she grimaced at the memory. "And neither is the bike.  Let's take the jeep instead."

He grinned. " _Definitely_."

There was a brief silence as they looked at each other and Humphrey wondered whether he dared kiss her. Exactly _how_ slowly did she want this to go?

She sighed and leaned over. "Not _that_ slowly," she murmured against his lips before capturing them.

As the kiss deepened, he wondered, in a slightly dazed manner, whether he'd spoken his thoughts aloud or whether she was just a very good mind reader. Still, as his hands came up to tangle in her hair and she ran her fingers lightly over his chest, perhaps it didn't matter all that much…

"Hey, boss! Are you there – oh, sorry -."

The voice was unmistakeably Dwayne's.

Camille sighed and then giggled against Humphrey's mouth. "We don't really get a break, do we?"

"Not much." He leaned away from her reluctantly, to look around at Dwayne. The officer was standing near the steps, very carefully looking out to sea, although his lips were twitching. He didn't look particularly startled by the change in circumstances.

"Sorry to _interrupt_ , Sir." There was a wealth of suggestion in his tone. "I came to collect Camille. There's been a break-in at a jewellery shop. I wouldn't have called you but there's a lot missing, and it looks like they might try to make a run for it at the harbour. Fidel's already on his way there."

Camille gave Humphrey a rueful look as she got to her feet. "So, it's the side car for me – how _lovely_. Will you be OK by yourself?"

He smiled. "I'll be fine."

"Alright." She glanced over her shoulder, but Dwayne had very considerately wandered back over to the squad bike. She bent and gave him another lingering kiss. "I'll see you later."

"Later…" he echoed, watching her as she walked off to join Dwayne.

The bike roared off. Humphrey stretched out in his chair and gazed at the sparkling blue sea, feeling utterly content.

**The End**

 


End file.
